


Letters to Rohan

by Metallic_Sweet



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Canon-Typical Violence, Courtly Love, Cultural Differences, Fictional Religion & Theology, Gen, Getting to Know Each Other, Horses, Letters, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Magic, Mental Health Issues, Tolkien's Legendarium - Freeform, War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:35:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23859175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metallic_Sweet/pseuds/Metallic_Sweet
Summary: During the first Siege of Osgiliath, Ferdinand of Gondor begins a letter exchange with Hubert and Edelgard of Rohan.(or, how Ferdinand, who would grow to be the Last Ruling Steward of Gondor and first Prince of Ithilien, begins to show his quality)
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 73
Kudos: 137
Collections: Ferdibert Birthday Bash 2020





	1. Book 1: Osgiliath

From the Tale of the Years reflecting the Chronology of the Westlands:

    Ferdinand, son of Ludwig of the line of the Ruling Stewards of Gondor and Finduilas of the line of Princes of Dol Amroth, is born in the Year 2993 of the Third Age.

The Third Age were the fading years of the Eldar. Nemesis, servant of Seiros, had been overthrown. The great kingdoms of the Elves and the Dwarves remained concerned with themselves. This was not for a lack of care for the wider world. Rather, the Elves were dwindling and more sailed west, and the Dwarves were plagued by the evil things that stirred beneath the earth. Nemesis was overthrown, but, as the years passed, the forges of Mordor grew hot once more with the wells of magma deep within Mount Doom. 

Ferdinand’s birth was celebrated but a necessity. The line of Elendil was not broken, but the line of Kings of Gondor had failed a thousand years prior. The Ruling Stewards kept Gondor as the last King was lost on campaign and neither confirmed alive nor dead. Ferdinand’s birth was preceded in his parent’s loving but unlucky marriage by two sons and a daughter, none of whom reached their first year. The Plague was strong in those years. Rumours strong enough to be recorded in Minas Tirith’s Citadel postulate that Finduilas had been poisoned by Black Breath as she traveled from Dol Amroth to Minas Tirith. 

Ferdinand’s first few years are lost to record as he was a normal, healthy child. Finduilas’ health continued to decline, and she passed when Ferdinand was five. Ferdinand received a normal education for a child of his station. His father’s diaries describe his young son as proficient in sword, axe, and lance work, and he is well-known as a natural horse rider. Although it was not recorded in his father’s diaries, Ferdinand at some point in his early youth became a student of the wizard, Jeralt, who took only one other student from the race of Men, Constance of line of Nuvelle.

This is where this tale begins.

**i.** A Book of Lost Tales

The stables of the Citadel were designed, like the Citadel itself, to house the horses of the King of Gondor. Since the line of Kings had been broken, it has become the stables of the Steward and Guards of the Citadel. The stall which would have housed the King’s favourite horse is left vacant, symbolic of how all of Gondor awaits its King’s return. In practice, the stall is primarily used for storage. Since the current Steward, Ludwig, no longer rides, the right stall is left empty since his war horse, Surefoot, passed away from old age. 

The left stall is occupied by Ferdinand’s first horse, just now a yearling. Her name is Mithril, so named for her pale, almost grey eyes. She was a tenth year gift from Ferdinand’s maternal uncle, the Prince of Dol Amroth, and is of the slow-growing, long-lived stock favoured by the people of South Ithilien. She is small at the moment and looks like an odd skinny pony, but her eyes are thoughtful and ears perked and listening. She is an excellent companion for a boy who often likes to hide away in her stall, which is exactly what Ferdinand is doing now. 

There is only one other who knows best where Ferdinand likes to hide:

“I would tell you, Ferdinand,” Constance’s voice filters through the stable’s quiet, “that all the time you spend with that wizard is why your father is so cross with you.” 

Ferdinand sighs, following the turn of Mithril’s head to the stall gate. He rolls over on the hay-covered ground of the stable, laying the book Jeralt had brought him on this visit on his chest before lifting his head to look up at Constance. She stands in the stall door, hands on her hips and bunching her skirts. She clearly hates them, the excessive amount of fabric stopping her from easily hopping over the stall’s gate.

“And your mother will be cross with you,” he points out as she very cumbersomely clambers into the stall, “to find you have run out of lessons to hide in the stables.” 

Constance frowns, her hands pressing down upon her hips as she leans over Ferdinand, trying to read the title of the book pressed into the leather of the spine. “There’s nothing that dotty old tutor can teach me, Constance of Nuvelle, that I do not already know!” she proclaims, leaning closer and frowning deeper. “What Elvish tongue is that? The Tengwar is different. That is not Quenya.” 

“It is Sindarin,” Ferdinand says, and he turns the book over as Constance plops down to sit next to him. “This is a book of tales. Jeralt is helping me learn with it.” 

“Not fair,” Constance breathes, but with absolutely no heat just as the rest of her earlier scoldings. “Teach me, too.” 

Ferdinand snorts. He sits up, laying the book on his lap. Constance scoots closer, forever wrinkling her skirts against the hay. Ferdinand flips back to the front of the book where he placed his notes on Sindarin basics from his past two conversations with Jeralt. He picks up the scrap parchments, flipping through them for the first ones that show the difference in the Tengwar writing system.

It is hardly fair, he thinks not for the first time, that Constance is no longer able to speak freely with Jeralt. Now that they are out of shorts, she rarely gets to sneak away like this. He misses their younger days, when Constance could pepper the wizard with questions about magic that Ferdinand cannot come up with on his own. Her skill is greater, perhaps because of her mother’s distant claim of relation to the long gone city of Gondolin. 

“Here,” he says as Constance snatches the scrap parchment with more delicateness than most would expect from his offering fingers. “Jeralt said his penmanship is not as fine as the Elves –”

“Nothing is as fine as the Elves,” Constance scoffs, her eyes bright and joyful as she devours the new information; her hold on the paper is almost reverent. “I have read that Sindarin is descended from Doriath.”

Ferdinand nods. They have likely read the same tales of Doriath, which have to do with the tragedy of the children of Húrin and the greatest of dragons. Quenya is prioritised in Ferdinand and Constance’s education, although for different reasons. For Ferdinand, many of the ancient state papers are in Quenya, and the language of the High Elves has changed little from the First Age. For Constance, it is fashionable for a lady to know some Elvish, and she shares Ferdinand’s tutor. 

Sindarin is more functional but with dialectal variances that make it difficult to find a reliable tutor. It is also the language of Ferdinand’s mother’s long ago ancestors. Through her, Ferdinand has some vestiges of Elf-blood. He takes after her in his countenance in all but his hair and eye colouring. In that, he is obviously of the line of Stewards of Gondor, who all have hair and eyes of bright copper. His father, and his father before him, were all stout axe men, natural in heavy armour and on horseback. Ferdinand has the right colouring, but he is smaller than all the other noble children at ten years. Even lazy Linhardt, who Ferdinand cares little for as a friend but knows he must learn to work with, is now taller. 

“I wonder what proper Tengwar looks like,” Constance says, drawing Ferdinand back from his wandering thoughts; she has made a small light spell in her left palm to better read in the dim stable stall. “We only ever see stuff written by Jeralt and Men.” 

“I know my mother could write well,” Ferdinand says. “She had a tutor who was an Elf of Ilmadris in her youth, and I know her diaries and letters were almost all in Tengwar. She was fluent in Quenya and standard Sindarin. But that is no help for us. Father put all of her belongings into the Hallows with her to accompany her to the Hall of Mandos.”

Constance nods. The Steward Ludwig’s grief over his wife’s passing from the plague is well-known. Not because it was public but because he grieved at all. Ludwig is known to be a shrewd politician, but he is not well-loved and often rubs even the local Citadel court the wrong way. In the past year, since he began to spend more time with his study locked, he even baulks against Jeralt’s counsel, which he used to welcome with rare smiles and open arms. 

He used to always welcome Ferdinand into his study with an even warmer smile and wider arms. 

“Ferdinand,” Constance says, very gently.

Ferdinand starts. He feels his face heat when he turns to Constance to find her gazing at him with sympathy. She, of all his friends, knows the most and also cares the deepest for his feelings. She is his best friend and he hers. They have always run off together from boring lessons and gotten into trouble trying to beg sweet pastries from the Citadel kitchens or bugging Jeralt for more spells or tales. 

But that, too, will come to an end soon. Once Constance begins to show her feminine qualities, they will not be allowed to be so close. They are children now, who can be forgiven for hiding away from lessons and responsibilities in the stables. It will be a scandal all too soon. 

They both know they have no time to waste.

“Apologies,” Ferdinand says.

He opens the book of tales again, checking the stall door briefly to make sure they are still in relative privacy. Mithril stands with her grey gaze and ears perked for any approaching footsteps, too. It surprises Ferdinand and pleases him deeply that she already cares so well for him when they have only known each other for a couple of months. He turns his attention back to Constance, who has also noticed Mithril’s astute gaze. She looks between them and, excited, smiles. 

“Read to us, Ferdinand,” Constance whispers. 

Mithril blinks. 

In the years that will come to pass, this moment will become a portent. The book of tales gifted by a wizard; the secrets shared at the end of their childhoods; the Elven tongues on the lips of children and their messy Tengwar script: 

“Herein lies the tale,” Ferdinand begins, “of the friendship of Lúthien and the great hound, Huan….” 

**ii.** The Wizard’s Child

Ferdinand grows from a boy into a soldier into a man.

It is not the right order of things. There is, however, no other choice. Ferdinand, in his fifteenth year, is sent to the defense of Osgiliath by order of his father. He had distinguished himself in his maiden battle against an encroachment of orcs in his fourteenth year and had been assigned a squadron. The advancement of forces out of Minas Morgul upon Osgiliath was swift, aided by betrayers within Gondor as much as the cunning of the Enemy. 

The belligerence brings Jeralt to Minas Tirith just before Ferdinand, along with the Citadel forces, are meant to depart. Jeralt comes with a young adult that he calls his child, which itself is very odd because wizards have no children. He has also never mentioned having a child before. Ferdinand points these things out because he is fifteen; his voice in the process of breaking; and he is jealous suddenly of this new person who is so masterful of a sword and stares at him with empty, expressionless eyes. 

“They are my child,” Jeralt asserts, but it is not in a tone that takes offense; he weathers Ferdinand’s incredulousness and moment of pettiness with such unusual regalness that Ferdinand immediately feels ashamed. “Their name is Byleth. I brought them to aid Osgiliath.” 

“Then I beg your forgiveness for my rudeness,” Ferdinand says, absolutely mortified. “And I beg you, Master Byleth, not to think less of me for my hasty judgement.”

“I would have no title,” Byleth says, and their tone is smooth and faintly lilting, giving away that they are used to speaking in Sindarin. “I am only Byleth. I have some skill with a blade and only a bit with magic.” 

“Byleth is highly skilled with any sword,” Jeralt sighs as if this is something the two of them have argued about, “but their skill with spells is not a wizard’s or that of the Elves. Constance has more skill. By the way, how is she?”

Ferdinand knows then his face has given away some of it. He looks away from Jeralt and Byleth, checking to see if any of the other soldiers preparing to ride are listening. Aside from his childhood axe tutor, Belegon, who now serves him as his second in command and advisor, everyone else is rushing around with preparations and too busy to be interested in the wizard. In the past fifteen years, Jeralt has been a regular visitor to the Citadel, providing much needed aid and only occasionally heeded counsel to Ferdinand’s father. 

“The Nuvelle family was proven to be involved with our enemy just two months ago,” Ferdinand says, and it hurts to say as much as it does to see Jeralt’s eyes grow wide with shock. “Lady Nuvelle took Constance before we could send word to close the gates. We have heard that there was a ship that bore a black star that docked only briefly to take on passengers in Lebennin, so we have reason to believe she and Constance are now with the Umbar.” 

“That is sobering news,” Jeralt says, and Byleth looks at him with slightly drawn eyebrows, the first emotion that Ferdinand has seen the stranger display. “How was the Nuvelle’s involvement proved?”

Ferdinand sighs. Next to him, Belegon frowns. Not at the noise or emotion. Belegon has been the greatest personal support to Ferdinand in the past few years. He is still a soldier in his prime who could seek higher appointments, but he has taken Ferdinand‘s side in arguments and Ferdinand’s unfortunate habit of getting into fisticuffs. In the past year since Ferdinand’s maiden battle, he has listened to Ferdinand’s opinions even when they are poorly formed. He is no sycophant as some of the other tutors jeered, rather listening so that he may help Ferdinand form more polite ways of expressing his thoughts.

It is Ferdinand’s noble luxury that Belegon is with him now. He must not waste this great responsibility.

“Perhaps we should speak privately,” Ferdinand says, very carefully.

It is not because he distrusts Jeralt or Byleth. It is because he fears, even after two months since the Nuvelle’s betrayal and Constance’s departure from his life, that he may cry. His influence over other soldiers is tenuous because he appears even younger than his fifteen years. He is barely tall enough to safely wield most full-sized weapons, and even his undermail has to be shortened. His lance and javelin work upon Mithril’s back is very respectable, and most of the soldiers do know this from public exercises. They, however, shy away from his magic, even though it is far less than Constance’s skill. 

“Here,” Ferdinand says, trying to retain his composure, “we may speak in this room.” 

It is the office of the Captain of the Lower City Guard, but it has been made Ferdinand’s office temporarily. The captain is dead, killed in a skirmish against orcs who prodded the outer defenses. Ferdinand is here not simply because his father willed it but because Gondor was not prepared for Nemesis’s forces to advance so boldly. They had good information thanks to the Nuvelles. Gondor has paid dearly for it. 

Ferdinand privately thinks that the betrayal could have been prevented if his father had been willing to see the Nuvelles’ growing unhappiness, but he knows better than to share this thought. It would not have changed the situation in Osgiliath, but it may have mitigated the initial damage. 

“And that is the story,” Ferdinand says as he pours the four of them tea. “I will ride to Osgiliath with the forces we may muster here. I am sure on horseback, even in water and tight quarters, and thanks to your spells, I can make light in the dark.” 

Jeralt inclines his head in agreement. His face is dark and grave. The expression makes him look for the first time like the Grey Wizard rather than Jeralt, friend of all the races of Middle Earth and storyteller to children. Ferdinand realises that he likely read between the lines and understands some of Ferdinand’s unvoicable opinions. 

“You have become a man, Ferdinand,” Jeralt says, somber and more than a little sad. 

“I have always been a Man,” Ferdinand says because if he reacts in any other manner, he will weep as the boy he feels like. 

Next to him, Byleth sits with their teacup in their hands, unminding of the heat. Their gaze is empty and almost passive, alert only in the manner of a soldier awaiting orders. At the door, Belegon looks upon Ferdinand in much the same way as Jeralt. If this had been just a few days ago, Ferdinand would have found Byleth unsettling and utterly unnatural. He finds now he prefers the simplicity of their gaze. 

Byleth is so strange that Ferdinand does not want to cry. 

**iii.** The Siege of Osgiliath

For the next two years, Osgiliath is a battleground. Gondor is able to retake the city, but the forces of Mordor make sporadic but coordinated attacks with orcs and fell beasts. It becomes a siege. Osgiliath’s eastern walls and the stone buildings fall into patchwork ruins. The small dam that once held the river there is broken, and it floods. Instead of repairing the dam, this allows the forces of Gondor some reprieve during high tide when orcs and most fell beasts dare not cross. 

There are winged fell beasts. They come rarely, but the damage is massive when they do. Ferdinand begins to have nightmares about this.

Ferdinand spends these years riding Mithril back and forth between Osgiliath and the Citadel. He reports to his father and then joins Belegon to coordinate reinforcements and supplies before returning to Byleth on the eastern frontlines. He accepts command of a mixed cavalry and infantry battalion, which absorbs his original squadron. He assigns Byleth and Belegon to command the two infantry squadrons, and he commands the cavalry directly. Mithril and he are able to forge deep into the protective waters of the river, and he is able to lead unique offenses as his battalion follows the light of his magic in the dark. It does not break the siege, and these offenses are difficult and risky, but they buy the forces of Gondor much needed time to bring resources into Osgiliath and rotate troops as the Enemy licks their wounds.

His father is congratulatory for Ferdinand’s personal successes, but he is largely ambivalent or openly displeased with the cost and length of the siege. Ludwig’s complete physical detachment from the battlefield causes tension with the generals. Since the Nuvelle’s betrayal, Ludwig keeps his eyes on the court and aims to squash their discontents. The generals dislike this as does Ferdinand, which causes Ferdinand exquisite anxiety. Mercifully, the generals treat him fairly as a young commander, and they are eager to hear his newest offensive plans. Ferdinand’s battalion becomes popular for young soldiers eager to distinguish themselves. 

In these years, Ferdinand finally hits his growth. He shoots rapidly upwards but takes on little bulk, reflecting his mother’s distant Elf-blood. His hair and eyes keep the copper tone of his father’s line, which prevents rumours from taking hold that he is, in fact, an Elf rather than a Man. Instead, that particular rumour becomes popular as teasing in Osgiliath and always out of the ear of his father. Ferdinand laughs about it because it improves morale.

It is also the first joke Byleth smiles about upon hearing. Byleth is an excellent soldier and, despite having no initial connection to Osgiliath or the world of Men at large, is immediately exemplary in service. Jeralt is only able to visit for short pockets of time, and Ferdinand is constantly expected to be everywhere, so they both worried Byleth would suffer for their oddities. Instead, some of the infantry took to Byleth, especially once it became apparent Byleth could only do what amounted to magic tricks. To most of Osgiliath’s forces, Byleth is a great swordsperson, very dependable in and out of battle, and excellent fun to tease. 

“You seem happy here,” Jeralt comments to both Byleth and Ferdinand when he visits two weeks past Ferdinand’s seventeenth birthday. 

Byleth smiles. Ferdinand would as well, but he has a mouthful of pigeon and leek pie. He is constantly, painfully hungry these days, and there is never enough to go around. He would feel guilty for how much he eats, but all of Gondor’s soldiers remember their growing days. It seems to bring them joy that Ferdinand’s occasional extra ration helps him sprout ever further upward. Any joy is good for morale, and Ferdinand cannot have himself so hungry that he is distracted at a critical moment. 

Any moment may become critical. This is, after all, a battleground to try to prevent a greater war. 

“It is not a happy occasion,” Jeralt says as Ferdinand swallows his mouthful, “but you have both learned something of command.” 

“It is not all somberness,” Belegon agrees as he joins them with a jug of wine for Jeralt and himself. “Both my lord and Byleth are popular with their youthful energy.” 

“Youthful energy,” Byleth echoes, flat but with a slight raise of their right eyebrow.

“Ah hah!” Jeralt laughs, extremely pleased by this huge increase in expressiveness. “I do see what you mean, Belegon!” 

Ferdinand lets the conversation carry on around him as he finishes his serving of pie. Jeralt and Belegon have started to get on famously, and Jeralt always brings Longbottom Leaf when he visits Osgiliath, which makes his arrival extremely popular with almost everyone. Ferdinand himself is more for a bit of leaf than alcohol, and he loves the opportunity to listen to Jeralt’s stories of his recent visits to the Shire just as he loved Jeralt’s teaching tales from the First and Second Ages as a child. 

“The Halflings call themselves Hobbits,” Jeralt says after they have all had some of the Longbottom leaf and Ferdinand feels childish enough to ask for a story.

“Hobbits,” Belegon says, the word even odder on his tongue. “That is a strange thing to call oneself.” 

It makes Jeralt chuckle on his pipe. “Well, I am called a wizard among many other things,” he says before reaching out and patting Ferdinand on the head as if he is a small child again. “I have heard this one’s names uttered here.” 

“Oh, do not,” Ferdinand says, his cheeks hot as both Belegon and Byleth smirk at him. “If my father heard me called ‘Elf-Blooded’ or ‘Horse-Master’, he would not show mercy.” 

“You do not dislike nor deny the names,” Byleth says, mild and relaxed.

“The Elves and the Rohirrim are noble people just as Men of Gondor,” Ferdinand says, tapping ash from his pipe. “My father is –”

“Easy to offend,” Belegon says, a fair assessment.

“Focused upon the Threat to the point he discounts allies,” Jeralt says, also a fair assessment. 

“Mean,” Byleth says, less fair but a valid assessment.

Ferdinand shrugs, an action and an out he usually doesn’t take. He has his own opinions about his father that have grown into convictions over the course of the past two years, but they are not appropriate to share. 

“Speaking of the Rohirrim,” Jeralt says as Belegon refills his and Jeralt’s pipes, “I have news that may interest you.” 

Ferdinand makes a questioning noise as Belegon raises his eyebrows. Byleth reclines their chair slightly by pushing it back onto the hind legs and looks over the side of the wall they are sat upon at the distant towers of the Minas Tirith lit even late in the evening.

“Edelgard, daughter of Ionius, King and Lord of the Mark of Rohan, has entered court life as a Maiden of the Hall,” Jeralt says.

“Oh?” Ferdinand says, very surprised. “I do know of her as she was born the same year I was. I believe her mother, Patricia, a pen-friend of my mother. But she has older sisters, I thought? Why have they not been named Maiden of the Hall?” 

Jeralt pauses momentarily. Ferdinand feels his face fall. 

What has his father, in his inability to look beyond Minas Tirith’s walls, missed now?

“It seems that the plague that swept through Rohan six years past took her mother, sisters, and brothers to the Halls of Mandos,” Jeralt says, and he continues before Ferdinand or Belegon are forced to recover and comment. “She is now Ionius’ sole heir. She is a skilled horsewoman, who favours the axe. Her sworn companion is Hubert, a bowman with some skill with magic. They are looking to conduct exercises utilising mounted axework and magic as active members of the King’s Riders. Both are fluent in Sindarin and, when I spoke with them, would be open to pen-friends to keep up their Tengwar.” 

Ferdinand flushes. He clears his throat, but that does little to help him regain his composure. 

“I will admit I have not been able to keep up my studies in the past couple of years,” he says, which makes his ears burn with embarrassment and shame. “I am neither fluent in Sindarin, and I am sure my Tengwar would be rudimentary at best.” 

“Osgiliath has been under siege,” Byleth points out without looking back from over the wall. “As someone mostly raised by Elves, I would say your Sindarin is passable. For a Man who has never met an Elf.” 

Ferdinand opens his mouth. Closes his mouth. There is nothing remiss about any of Byleth’s statements, and there never is. Ferdinand has wondered if Byleth is physically capable of lying or fibbing. Even after two years, he finds this quality reassuring and refreshing.

“Well,” Ferdinand says, very awkwardly as both Belegon and Jeralt chuckle, “if they are so desperate for someone to practice with, I suppose it cannot hurt. I will write to Edelgard and Hubert both.”

“Both,” Jeralt echoes, like this is somehow amusing. “It is good to see you have not lost all of your shyness, Ferdinand.” 

“It is scandalous to write directly to a maiden Lady!” Ferdinand says, perhaps too loudly. 

“Scandalous,” Belegon grunts as Jeralt jabs him in the side with his pipe. “Ouch!”

Byleth nearly falls backwards on their chair as they laugh. 

**iv.** Some Letters

A draft letter in heavily corrected penciled Tengwar held in the Citadel archives, dated the 13 May T.A. 2310:

_Dear Lady Edelgard and Lord Hubert,_

_I am Ferdinand, of Gondor and son of Ludwig, Steward of Gondor. I write to you from Osgiliath at the suggestion of the wizard, Jeralt, who you may know by his other names. He visited recently during a break in action and asked that I become pen-friend to you to keep up our Tengwar and Sindarin. As you may [???] tell from my penmanship, I am out of practice, but I hope that I may improve as we write._

_I do not know what he has told you of me. I have been part of the defense of Osgiliath for the past two years. I will not bore or burden you with details unless you wish to hear what I may share. I am happy to share thoughts about high tales, too, as I enjoy Lays [???] and histories. I am especially fond of stories of the First Age._

_I also wish to learn about Rohan and the Rohirrim. I have not gotten to travel much from Minas Tirith and [???] I am a keen horse rider, and I share a special connection to my Mithril, and I am considered a good rider for a Man of Gondor, but I imagine I will need to work hard to compare to you both._

_Thank you for receiving my letter. I hope to hear from you soon._

_Sincerely,  
Ferdinand _

A letter in unsteady but legible Tengwar written on goatskin parchment favoured by the Edoras court, dated 20 May T.A. 2310:

_Dear Lord Ferdinand,_

_My Lady thanks you for your letter. As Maiden of the Court, she may not respond directly. It is her wish that I suggest we discuss things in these letters that we may discuss freely. As you are in Osgiliath and we are in Edoras, which faces raiders from the mountains, it is foolhardy to discuss any points that could help the Enemy should these letters be intercepted. We cannot rely on a Wizard to carry all of our messages if we wish to have regular practice of Tengwar and Sindarin._

_Therefore, we may discuss our horses and First Age histories. My Lady is fond of tales of battle and of noble beasts. We are fond of the Eagles and the Mearas. We would also like to hear of your horse, Mithril. My lady is an agile horsewoman and has a gift for husbandry. She currently has six horses, two of Mearas stock who were born twins at the dawn of this year._

_I am not an exceptional horseman, but I have one mare of excellent temperament. She is named Luna, and she is unique in her stock as she was born with a black coat. Some thought she had an Evil look to her, but my Lady saw the prejudice in this and argued for her life. She is a kind and brave horse, and she is comfortable around magic._

_We hope this letter finds you hale in these dark times._

_Sincerely,  
Hubert, on behalf of Lady Edelgard of Edoras_


	2. Book 2: The Intervening Years

**v.** Minas Tirith

The Siege of Osgiliath comes to an end after four years.

It is a war of attrition. Gondor emerges victorious insomuch as it maintains control of Osgiliath, but the entire Gondor military is devastated. Those originally of Osgiliath are reduced by eighty percent, and Minas Tirith’s forces are down by half. The forces of Nemesis go into retreat in seemingly the same fashion, withdrawing without a formal surrender and Gondor unwilling to waste more resources and bodies to attempt a pursuit.

Ferdinand, for his nineteenth birthday, sits astride Mithril in the low tide water of Eastern Osgiliath. He watches the last of the orc scouts and labour corps packing up across the river, their beasts of burden staggering under the weight of battering rams repurposed as trench shoring. Watching the black banners retreat back towards Minas Morgul, he feels oddly bereft. As if he is watching a part of himself being carried away.

“Lord Ferdinand,” Byleth calls, back on the banks of Osgiliath. “The tide is coming in.”

Ferdinand tears his eyes away. Turns Mithril to begin the progress towards the bank.

Behind him, a beast bays.

Back in Minas Tirith, a victory festival is held to welcome the Gondorian forces home. For the first time in Ferdinand’s memory, the Steward opens the Citadel to allow common people to enter the seventh level of the city. Ludwig, of course, does not make a personal appearance, but he does not need to; Ferdinand is home and can fill in for him. Ferdinand joins the generals mingling in the Citadel among the people who venture up. He helps the Guards of the Citadel set out seeing glasses for people to gaze out over Pelennor Fields from view points along the Citadel walls.

Ferdinand tries. He honestly does. He goes with the generals to visit each level of the city in place of his father. He shakes hands with people who reach for him and lets young children pet Mithril’s sides. In truth, he only gets through it because he is allowed to bring Mithril through the city as she has become a popular and recognisable horse. She is mild in the face of the increasingly loud and wild crowds, and she helps Ferdinand keep his head.

It is very loud. There are many people. There is a lot of shouting.

In the evening, there are fireworks.

Ferdinand has not been long enough from the battlefield that his body understands he is dealing with friends instead of foes.

Belegon and Byleth meet him when he and the generals return to the Citadel. It is late, and Ferdinand feels as exhausted and riled up as after a long battle against fell beasts. He dismounts from Mithril after all of the generals have dismounted, and he reaches up to push his hair from his face to hide the trembling that began on the fifth level of the city.

“Some good news,” Belegon says as he takes Ferdinand’s ceremonial shield.

“My father is here,” Byleth says before Ferdinand can find his tongue.

Jeralt is in the guest quarters, which has a balcony that faces towards Osgiliath and, over the crest of the Black Gate, Mount Doom. Mount Doom, in the night, is a red, angry spot, spitting high into the heavy clouds lava that can be seen easily. It blots out the moon. Jeralt turns from his consideration the view when Byleth announces them, and his face is shadowed in the dim candlelight as they enter.

“Ah,” Jeralt sighs once the door is closed and they have joined him on the balcony. “These are Evil times.”

“They are,” Ferdinand says, bald and edgy as he stares at a plume of lava cresting through the sky.

Silence. It makes Ferdinand’s oversensitive skin prickle, and he turns. Byleth has sat down on one of the chairs on the balcony. Belegon stands in the arch of the balcony, arms crossed over his chest. And Jeralt –

Ferdinand stares at his teacher and _knows_.

“You are leaving,” he says as Jeralt’s grave eyes keep his gaze. “So is Byleth.”

“We are needed further West,” Jeralt says, and Ferdinand nods because he is an adult and he is a soldier and he has heard the whispers that some piece of great Evil has awakened dark things in many parts of Middle Earth. “But before we go, I wish to speak to you.”

“It will not be the last,” Ferdinand says, and he takes a step forward before he can stop himself; he is nineteen, but a part of him feels forever ten and desperate for more knowledge and comfort. “I will see you both again. The line of Stewards still has blood of Númenor, and my mother did have Elf-blood. If I live a natural lifespan, I may have a hundred years. I will see you.”

Jeralt smiles. It is a sad but sincere expression. He steps forward and places his left hand on Ferdinand’s right shoulder. Ferdinand knows Jeralt can feel how his body trembles against the flood of emotions that threaten to take him over.

“You are destined for great things,” Jeralt says, soft and gentle as he has not spoken since Constance was lost. “When the time is right, we will meet again.”

Ferdinand swallows. Once. Twice.

He will not cry.

“Yes,” he whispers. “We will meet again.”

There is no peace.

Mount Doom crackles and spits molten rock and fire. The sky to the east is forever dark with black clouds that choke out the sun and the moon.

Ferdinand, now reassigned and promoted to serve as a Captain of the Citadel Guard, finds himself frustrated. With Byleth’s departure with Jeralt in the early morning after the victory celebration, he only has Belegon and Mithril with whom to speak freely. But the Citadel walls have ears, and Ferdinand knows that his words are of interest because he distinguished himself and is the Steward’s only son. He dares not to utter his thoughts within the walls of Minas Tirith. The home of his youth is gone. It departed when Constance was dragged from the Nuvelle home by her own mother.

For she did not go willingly. Ferdinand keeps secret this knowledge because he gained it by breaking into the Nuvelle’s house late at night after they ran from justice. He knew the spell Constance kept on her window, and he scaled the white stone to shimmy in through it. Her room was a disaster, and her wardrobe doors had been broken from their hinges and clothes and shawls scattered and torn. Ferdinand knew she sometimes hid in the wardrobe from tutors.

It was there, and not in Osgiliath nor the patch of Pelennor of his maiden battle, that Ferdinand left his childhood behind.

Stuck back in the Citadel, Ferdinand thinks too much about this. His nightmares of the Enemy’s winged beasts have followed him home, too, so he is careful to work hard during the day and the evening so his mind is too tired to dream. This, however, has another effect. In those exhausted slumbers, Ferdinand begins to have what he can only characterise as visions. They have no concrete form with everything obscured by dense fog like what came off the river in East Osgiliath.

Instead, Ferdinand can hear voices. Words. They always speak in a dialect of Sindarin that Ferdinand has never heard, but he finds, with each dream, he can better understand. They murmur of water. Of a great battle. Of the Men and Elves and Dwarves and Orcs in the ground. Long, long, long ago:

_The earth swallow them  
and make them same  
O the children  
who sleep and weep  
calling, calling  
Do not wake them_

Jeralt’s proclamation that he would not be able to return to Minas Tirith for some time holds true, and Ferdinand does not know how to write him or Byleth. Ferdinand does not want to burden Belegon with this, and he knows his father’s once sound counsel is lost.

So Ferdinand begins to whisper the memories of these Sindarin visions to Mithril when he brushes her mane each morning. He knows from the way she gazes at him as he presses his lips at the shell of her ear that she understands far more than a natural horse should. Ferdinand holds her, his cheek pressed to the side of her neck. Against good sense, he takes comfort in her silent watch over him.

Ferdinand is nineteen. He became a soldier and then a man. He has had his maiden battle. He has gone to war.

He is scared.

He trembles.

A letter in slanted Tengwar written on a piece of badly damaged parchment, dated 26 August T.A. 2312:

_delgard and Hube_

_apologise this  
cannot continue our discussion of Beleria  
what must seem a disturbing quest  
trouble and have none else who I can  
horses and seeing strange drea_

_I must depart Minas Ti_

_incere  
erdinand_

The morning he sends this letter, unknowing the damage it will incur, he asks his father to send him back to Osgiliath. To keep watch on the enemy, he argues, and he describes what he saw when the scouts and labour corps were packing up. He cites the lack of a formal surrender and reasons that someone with knowledge of the Enemy should help with the refortification of the city.

In response, his father laughs. Ludwig asks, with a wry smile, if Ferdinand has a lover in the slowly repopulating West Osgiliath town that he misses. Ferdinand is offended and deeply, irrevocably hurt, but he is also utterly desperate. Minas Tirith has become a trap.

So he says yes.

“I trust you to practice discretion,” his father chuckles before granting his request.

Ferdinand bows. Says words of thanks appropriate for his station. He feels as if he is bleeding out somehow.

It is the happiest Ferdinand has seen Ludwig since Finduilas died.

“You do not have a lover,” Belegon says as Ferdinand packs his room.

“I cannot stay in Minas Tirith,” Ferdinand says once he and Belegon are twenty horse widths from the city’s gate and heading east. “There is something calling to me and it is Evil.”

“Evil in the Citadel?” Belegon asks, barely above a whisper.

Ferdinand does not move, but Mithril nods her head. Not a bobbing of a horse, but a glance and a nod that Belegon registers and understands with wide, frightened eyes.

Ferdinand grips Mithril’s reins. Keeps his gaze on the horizon. Towards the East.

They ride.

A letter in fine inked Tengwar written on goatskin parchment, dated on 3 September T.A. 2312:

_Dear Ferdinand,_

_Your last letter caused Hubert and I great alarm. It arrived badly damaged, so we cannot ascertain much of what you tried to tell us. We do understand something has happened and you are leaving Minas Tirith. Where are you gone? We hope you will write to us if it is safe to do so. We face ever darkening times._

_May the Light of Elendil be with you._

_Sincerely,  
Lady Edelgard and Hubert_

**vi.** Emyn Muil

Ferdinand does not stay long at Osgiliath. He is there for only a month before he receives word from the Citadel that he is needed at the defenses of northern Ithilien. The order of his unit’s transfer to Emyn Muil is signed by his father, but the document is written in the hand of General Bergliez. The order is unusually accompanied by a mission explanation in Randolph of Bergliez’s hand, detailing why Ferdinand specifically is needed for the defense.

_You can tell the difference between the lights used by the Enemy and Evil. We have lost two full patrols, who were called by what they described as “lights” and “faces” in the Northern Marshes that they thought were Orcs. With the limits to our troops at the moment, it is my opinion that you are wasted in the Citadel Guard._

_Please ask for whatever you may need no matter how big nor how small. I will try my best._

“I would like,” Ferdinand jokes with Belegon and Mithril, “Byleth back and for Jeralt to visit and bring Longbottom Leaf again.”

“I don’t think Randolph will be able to do that,” Belegon says as Mithril snorts.

“It is kind of him to make such an offer,” Ferdinand says because it is. “I will be reasonable.”

He asks Randolph for extra stockings because Emyn Muil is notoriously damp. He also asks for good soap because Ferdinand’s hair and skin suffered in Osgiliath. He has no desire to get fungus or lice again. The request is granted and Randolph assures him that supplies will be brought as regularly as possible on these items.

For the next four years, Ferdinand commands a corps of light cavalry and rangers along the Gondorian border of the Dead Marshes. His presence prevents more patrols and wanderers from becoming lost, called by the lights that flicker and burn across the marshlands. In the pools where the lights flicker, the dead Elves, Orcs, and Men float. They are the casualties of many battles, all equal in death as they wait for more to join them.

Sometimes, even though he knows the lights of the dead for what they are, Ferdinand hears whispers. If he lingers too long alone by a pool, gazing upon the dead faces, he hears, too, how lonely they are. The loneliness speaks to him, deep inside his chest where he keeps his memories of his mother and the kind father he once had. It is only Mithril’s presence, in those moments, that reminds Ferdinand to turn away.

His ability to see the lights for what they are also means that he is able to spot Orcs and Men of the Enemy when they attempt to navigate the marshes. Most put up a fight and are killed in skirmishes, and Ferdinand discovers that the dead faces in the marsh pools truly do welcome all who chose to join them.

The few who survive become prisoners of Gondor. Ferdinand sends the Men back to Minas Tirith for questioning, but the Orcs are all deserters and are all in poor condition even if they do not put up a fight. Ferdinand does not have the capacity in Emyn Muil to hold prisoners indefinitely, and he does not trust anyone to keep an Orc alive long enough to reach Minas Tirith, so he is faced with the difficult quandary with the one Orc he manages to subdue alive and on his own.

“It would be best to kill me,” the Orc says, and Ferdinand can see the clarity and soundness of mind in their eyes as they speak. “Will you make it swift?”

Ferdinand nods. He gets to his feet and reaches for his sword. The Orc considers him for a moment before they offer him a small, bloody smile. Their eyes sparkle with sadness and mirth.

“You are a strange Man,” the Orc says, amused. “It was worth deserting to meet you.”

Ferdinand closes his hand on the hilt of his sword. They are alone, surrounded by the lights of the dead. He breathes in. Rotting vegetation. Flesh-rotting sourness. Damp. Always damp.

In Osgiliath, when the winged beasts came, Ferdinand saw the Orcs and Men of the Enemy writhe and scream and toss themselves into the swords of Gondorian forces or into the deeper water to drown. As his own scream choked his throat, he realised the forces of the Enemy had things from within they feared more than Gondor. More than death.

Ferdinand found he understood.

Now:

Ferdinand loosen his right hand from his sword. He breathes out. The Orc blinks.

The dead lights flicker.

“Look,” Ferdinand says.

“What?” the Orc asks, eyes widening as Ferdinand lifts his left hand.

He calls his magic there. The pale white of his Light pools in his palm. It does not flicker. Rather, it pulses with Ferdinand’s breathing. The Orc squints, blinking rapidly. Ferdinand can tell that they understand the difference between his Light and the dead lights.

Ferdinand shuts his hand, snuffing out his spell. He drops his hand back to his side. He feels cold and very tired.

The Orc looks at him. Focused and very wary.

Ferdinand breathes in.

“Don’t follow the lights,” he says.

He turns away. Back towards where he left his patrol at the southern border of the marshes.

No attack comes at his back.

After a long moment, he hears a shuffling. This becomes a walk and then a jog, footsteps moving further and further away. Heading west. Deserting.

The Orc is not a member of Enemy forces. They are a deserter, and, to Ferdinand, they are only running for their life. The Orc had cast aside all their symbols of Nemesis. They are a free entity, and Ferdinand has no claim to judgement over them.

They put their life at Ferdinand’s mercy. So Ferdinand showed them mercy.

He thinks of Constance’s father. How he did not flinch from the executioner’s axe.

He has committed a grave crime in his father’s law.

He wonders if he will pay for this one day.

Beneath his feet, the dead wait.

**vii.** Imladris

Word comes to Emyn Muil a few months after Ferdinand’s twenty-third birthday that he is to be sent to represent his father in Imladris.

Ferdinand, who receives the letter over lunch after a sober report about the loss of a full battalion in Anorien, drops his mug and spills tea all over his boots. He hastily mops his boots with his handkerchief as he rereads the letter to make sure that he has not, at last, taken leave of his senses. He still can barely believe the words on the parchment. In the past year, he has felt like it is only a matter of time before he begins to need to question his sanity.

“Belegon,” Ferdinand says, holding the letter out to his hovering second in command, “read me this aloud. I fear my eyes are playing tricks on me.”

Belegon snorts. He looks down at the parchment and Ferdinand has the vague satisfaction of watching Belegon’s thick eyebrows climb up his forehead and into his hair.

_My Son,_ the letter reads, which is itself an unusual way for Ferdinand’s father to address him, _I have received word that there will be a gathering in Imladris of the Free People of Middle Earth in two week’s time. The Lord of Imladris has asked for my presence, but, as usual, outsiders to the Citadel do not understand that I must keep the peace here. Therefore, I send you in my place with a delegation of individuals of your choosing. Inform me of these individuals and of the date of your departure from your current post in Emyn Muil. When you arrive in Imladris, send word and what other information you may report. All else I leave to you._

_Your father,  
Ludwig_

Ferdinand sighs heavily. He reaches up and rubs the side of his head as Belegon folds the letter up and places it on top of the map of Middle Earth that takes up the majority of the planning table. Imladris is marked on there along with its Westron name, Rivendell. It is a five days trip from Emyn Muil on horseback, and his father’s letter is dated three days ago. Ferdinand will have to leave by the next morning to be certain he will find Imladris in time.

“The Steward cannot be denied,” Belegon says, annoyed.

“No,” Ferdinand says, dropping his hand back to his side. “Right then.”

It is a rough departure. Ferdinand and Belegon have spent the entire past four years in Emyn Muil, and they have no time or ability to pack up all of their belongings if they wish to travel in good time. Ferdinand concentrates on finding a replacement for himself and Belegon among those stationed in Emyn Muil, and he writes to his father and to Randolph to inform them of what has been done. Belegon gets them travel supplies and distributes the majority of Ferdinand and his own clothing and personal effects among the town’s people.

He also gets Ferdinand and himself new travel cloaks and new covers for Mithril and his horse as the damp has gotten into those and made holes and frayed edges. Ferdinand would have put off new travel wear longer, but he realises if he and Belegon show up to Imladris actually looking like they came from the Dead Marshes, it would reflect poorly on Gondor. Belegon, late that night, also reveals that the troops have banded together in the short time frame to get Ferdinand a proper hairbrush.

“They are quite proud of themselves, my lord” Belegon says as Ferdinand holds the boar bristle brush with its solid and smooth handle awkwardly. “It is a good gift.”

“It is a good gift,” Ferdinand says, unable to look up as his face burns. “I have heard the joke about Mithril’s tail getting better care than mine, you know.”

Belegon snorts. Ferdinand turns to stuff the brush into his pack. He puts a change of undershirt and tunic on top so the bristles will be protected.

“I am to bed,” Belegon says. “We have a long journey tomorrow. Sleep well, my lord.”

He is smiling easily as Ferdinand lifts his head. He has never told Belegon about his nightmares nor his visions. The whispers have not abated. They come most nights, still murmuring in Sindarin of water and battle. Ferdinand doubts he will ever sleep well again.

This is not something with which Ferdinand will burden anyone but himself.

So Ferdinand smiles back.

“Sleep well, Belegon,” Ferdinand says, warmly.

He means it.

When Ferdinand was young and he and Constance clung to Jeralt’s knees and begged for stories, he imagined the Elves in the tales were the most wonderful and fairest people in all of Middle Earth. He and Constance begged Jeralt to describe their Kingdoms from the lost Doriath to the forested Lothlorien and Greenwood to the valley Ilmadris. Jeralt sometimes laughed and sometimes smiled in that muted way that Ferdinand would not grow to understand until he had his maiden battle. He humoured them and told them about the trees and the rivers and the Light that acted as a veil to keep the Elven Kingdoms from prying eyes.

As a child, Ferdinand imagined mostly the trees and the rivers, and he snuck into his father’s study to look at the good maps there to guess which may flow through the kingdoms and water the trees. Constance was the one who peppered Jeralt with question after question about the Elven magic that kept the Kingdoms ever mild in weather, free of flooding, and safe from all the strife and pestilence of the outside world.

“You ask the wrong Wizard,” Jeralt always admitted after a certain point. “I am a Wizard of many talents, but such Elvish magic is the gift that Melian gave to the Elves just as she gave nightingales their secret songs.”

Looking back, Jeralt’s honesty was part of why Ferdinand and Constance adored him so. He was the only adult who was so honest, and, unlike their tutors, he welcomed their inquiries. It was, of course, also likely he was so good with them because they were easy to please. They were young and did not travel, so any tale of the outside world was to be treasured.

Now, as he passes between great stones leaning against each other and overgrown with weeds and hard moss, Ferdinand knows that he has come to the right place because of the brush of magic over his skin. He shivers and draws his elbows close to his sides, hands tightening on Mithril’s reins. He can feel the Veil of Imladris touching him. Seeing him. It seems to breathe and sigh against his inner ear.

A voice, low and mild and in the Sindarin that Byleth used and helped Ferdinand become fluent in back in Osgiliath:

_Ferdinand, son of Ludwig of the line of Stewards of Gondor and Finduilas of Dol Amroth, you may pass._

“Thank you,” Ferdinand says, a little high-pitched.

“What was that?” Belegon asks, and he sounds so thoroughly spooked that Ferdinand turns to look over his shoulder; Belegon has gone so pale he looks liable to faint. “I heard a voice in my head, and it knew my name.”

“I believe that is Seteth, Lord of Imladris,” Ferdinand says, and he realises that this must be the first time Belegon has heard whispers that are not his own, so he adds, hoping for comfort: “He is the brother of Macuil, the Wind-Caller, who chose a mortal life and from whom our line of Kings descends.”

This does not comfort Belegon. His eyes widen briefly before they fall away to the ground. He watches the slow, steady progress of his horse’s hooves on the gravel.

“My lord,” he says as they pass through the narrowest part of the stones, “I am a simple Man, and I have no magic nor great talents aside from my axe. I have never feared anything as much as that voice.”

Ferdinand can offer no words of comfort for that, and the passage is too narrow for him to turn on Mithril’s back and place a hand upon Belegon’s shoulder. Even so, Belegon would not appreciate it. Ferdinand is his lord, and it would seem like pity. Belegon knows well that he cannot bring comfort to Ferdinand in these dark days, so he wants none for himself.

They both understand in this moment that their fates are parting ways.

It is fortuitous to the ache of this understanding that they pass into Imladris then.

“Oh,” Ferdinand breathes.

“Ah,” Belegon gasps.

The valley is incredible. The sun streams through mild clouds, neither too hot nor too cold. The breeze that flutters down from the north is pleasant, and song birds choral overhead as they flit from one tree to the next. Summer colours are turning to autumn, and the trees are speckled through their still rich green with red and orange and gold.

Beneath Mithril’s hooves, the dirt path is even and turns gradually to sturdy grey stone. They pass beneath several wood and iron archways, which have vines rich with flowers and even fruit growing up them. Belegon reaches out in awe of one of the vines, and Ferdinand can’t help but watch him brush his fingertips along the burnished skin of the grapes. The air is fragrant with healthy plant life, and Ferdinand can hear faintly the calm movement of the river nearby.

As they approach the courtyard among the curved and entwined beams that support the Elven architecture, Ferdinand hears a song in faint Quenya riding on the wind. He dismounts Mithril and tilts his head, listening.

_watch the way  
the Men grow  
how we may  
fade so slow  
to the West  
they now rest_

There is a crunch of soft-soled shoes on leaves.

Ferdinand turns.

“Jeralt!”

His cry is too loud and too bright and overjoyed. He drops Mithril’s reins and rushes to cover the distance between himself and Jeralt, who opens his arms and returns the crushing embrace that Ferdinand gives. The wizard is still larger than Ferdinand, but the height difference is not as obvious as four years past. Ferdinand grasps him close and rests his face in the heavy, clean fabric of Jeralt’s robes. He smells of Longbottom Leaf, horses, and soap.

“Oh, Jeralt,” Ferdinand says as Jeralt pats him on the back as if he is a small child again, “I have missed you.”

“I can tell,” Jeralt says, not without some humour and clear fondness. “I am sorry I have not been able to see you in some time.”

Ferdinand shakes his head against Jeralt’s shoulder before lifting himself. Jeralt lets him go as he looks Ferdinand over as if cataloguing the changes to him. To Ferdinand, Jeralt looks entirely the same down to each line by the sides of his eyes and around his mouth.

“Your hair is wild,” another familiar voice murmurs.

“Byleth!” Ferdinand says, and Jeralt lets him go as Byleth descends the curved staircase from one of the buildings into the courtyard. “You are here, too?”

Byleth smiles as Ferdinand opens his arms to embrace them. Byleth is clad in Elvish clothing, dark green robes with brown hems and a tall collar. It suits them better somehow than anything they wore while in Osgiliath or Minas Tirith. They, too, look entirely the same as the last time Ferdinand saw them, right down to the empty quality to their gaze that is mitigated by the warmth of their smile.

“I am a wizard’s child, so, yes,” Byleth says as they and Ferdinand pull apart; behind them, Ferdinand can hear Belegon and Jeralt in warm greetings of their own. “You have grown taller, but is that hair in fashion?”

“Uh,” Ferdinand starts.

He is saved from trying to find an explanation with the arrival of several Elves. They descend from the same stairwell that Byleth came down, and Ferdinand is struck by both how tall they are and how they seem to move with the same ease as the breeze that moves through the valley. Three linger slightly back, but the tallest and the smallest, both of whom have light green hair, approach. They come within two arms width of Ferdinand before stopping.

“Ferdinand, of the Line of Stewards of Gondor,” the tall Elf says, voice low and resonant, and Ferdinand draws himself up to attention because he recognises the power in the words, “I am Seteth, Lord of Imladris.”

“And I am Flayn,” the smaller Elf says, and her voice is bright as summer sun and her eyes full of power. “Keeper of the Veil.”

“You are welcome,” they both say as Ferdinand takes their offering hands, “in our Homely House.”

The hospitality of the Last Homely House is legendary, and Ferdinand’s experience is no exception. Even the stables are works of homely comfort. Ferdinand marvels at the freshness of the hay as he settles Mithril into one of the stalls. There are many other horses and several ponies here, but that makes good sense if a meeting of the Free People of Middle Earth is to take place.

Ferdinand and Belegon are both exhausted from days of swift travel. Seteth shows them to a dinner laden with fresh fish, plentiful vegetables, and warm bread. There is also ample wine, which warms Belegon to the whole experience considerably. Ferdinand has not eaten so well in a long time, and certainly not in the comfort of good company and without the dampness of Emyn Muil seeping into every corner and crevice. Jeralt and Byleth join them to catch up, and Flayn stays as well because, she says, she is hungry. They speak of only light things, and Ferdinand departs first, sensing that Belegon will need the counsel of Jeralt more urgently than Ferdinand himself.

He is given a room with a bed cleaner and more comfortable than anything he has ever slept in, even back in the Citadel. There is a private bath drawn for him in a wide, circular tub and Ferdinand scrubs with a wide bar of fine soap what feels like years of grime from his head to his toes. The heat of the water soothes the soreness of long days riding, and he lets his fingers and toes turn wrinkly as he enjoys himself.

The clothes that he is provided while his own are laundered and his weapons armour repaired are Elvish. They are soft and flowing, relying on multiple small ribbon ties rather than rough buckles. The fabric is even in colours complementary to his colouring. Ferdinand spends a long time after dressing sitting on the balcony, taking time to work on his hair with his new hair brush and a vial of herbal oil that Flayn offered him when she showed him the rooms.

“It is for hair,” she said as Ferdinand took it, “but it is also used for wounds. I make it myself with the herbs that we grow here. You may do what you wish with it, but I would like you to try it.”

It feels decadent. It also feels very nice. Ferdinand hums to himself as he brushes his hair. He listens to the faint song on the breeze and feels very calm.

It is very late by the time he is done. He finds, however, that he wants the opposite of sleep. He does not wish to disturb anyone in the house, so he puts on the thin but surprisingly strong shoes he has been provided and goes down into the courtyard. There are small lights set into lanterns hung from branches of trees light the pathways, and Ferdinand spends a long time inspecting the mechanism of the light. It is magic, but it is also starlight, and Ferdinand marvels as he walks at how the shadows of even the blacksmith’s forge seem mild in their looming. It is fascinating to find that most buildings do not have doors. It is all open and airy, and the whole of Imladris seems massive even as enclosed and protected as it is in its valley.

His wandering takes him through a trellis archway, and he finds himself by the river. The water is so clear that even in the lamplight he can see fish and turtles and water bugs in it. Plants grow everywhere, including edible flowers and medicinal herbs that he has only ever seen in books or rare and dried in an apothecary's chest.

Feeling enchanted and slightly giddy, Ferdinand kneels on the loomy earth. He traces his fingers over the surface of the water. He leans down over wild mint to better feel the wooly stems and see the tiny white and pink flowers. The scent of the mint reminds him distantly of a fine afternoon tea.

There is a soft shuffling on the path.

“Oh,” a voice, deep and slightly raspy, breathes.

Ferdinand lifts his head. Turns.

A Man, clad in dark clothes and an overtunic that bears the horse head shield of the Rohirrim, stands on the stone path. He is tall and very pale, and he wears the distinctive braided belt of a sworn sword, although he currently carries no weapons. His dark hair falls partially over his face, wet from a bath, but his eyes are very obvious for they are very wide.

“Excuse me, Lady Elf,” he says in accented Sindarin. “I did not mean to disturb you.”

“I am not a Lady nor an Elf,” Ferdinand responds also in Sindarin before his brain catches up, and he says, in Westron, as the man’s eyes go possibly wider and his face paler, “and you are not disturbing me. I was simply intrigued by the mint here.”

He motions to the healthy, beautiful plants that he kneels beside. The man looks, too. He blinks a couple of times, regaining his equilibrium. After a moment, he steps forward and off the path to join Ferdinand crouched in the dirt. He leans his elbows on his knees and looks at the flowers that Ferdinand still has caught between his fingers. For some reason, this fills Ferdinand’s heart with almost childish glee.

“It is beautiful,” the man says, softly in Westron that carries the distinctive Edoras accent.

“Yes,” Ferdinand says and he lets go of the flowers to offer his hand to the Man, who follows it before looking up to Ferdinand’s face. “Well met, this evening. I am Ferdinand of Gondor.”

The Man blinks. He stares at Ferdinand for a full moment in shock before he lifts his hand and clasps theirs together. His hand is long fingered and cool beneath the leather of his worn gloves. Ferdinand can see the lights of different emotions passing through the Man’s dark eyes. If they were even slightly further apart, he would have seemed like Byleth was once was.

This close, Ferdinand can almost touch him. He gives off a faint, pleasant heat.

The Man breathes in. Very deep.

“Well met,” he echoes.

Beside them, the river burbles.

“I am Hubert of Rohan.”


	3. Book 3: The Council

**viii.** Isildur’s Bane

Hubert is –

“You look nothing like what I imagined,” Ferdinand says as Hubert settles down on his knees in the dirt. 

Hubert blinks at him. Ferdinand immediately realises how that may sound. He hastens to add: 

“I thought you would have lighter hair,” he says because people of Rohan are often described in literature as more light-haired than Gondor.

Hubert blinks again. His lips twitch. 

“I am not used to Men of Gondor with hair quite that long,” he says, more than a little teasing.

Ferdinand sighs. “It is not for fashion,” he says as Hubert’s smile grows wide enough to show a bit of his teeth. “I have had other things to deal with than finding time to have it cut.” 

“Hm,” Hubert intones, still smiling. 

Ferdinand shakes his head. He does not attempt to add that Hubert is lucky that they have met in Imladris rather than anywhere else in the past four years. It would be rude. He was the one who dropped their two year letter exchange. He had intended to pick it back up after he and Belegon settled into Emyn Muil, but that took much longer than he originally anticipated. He could have revitalized the letter exchange three years ago with appropriate apologies. This was a period, however, when Ferdinand felt burdensome and awkward, especially knowing that he was only a day and a half ride from Edoras. After he met the deserting Orc, Ferdinand withdrew from nonessential communication entirely. 

All of this is his own failings. He left Hubert and Edelgard likely thinking Ferdinand was far away and in danger. Instead, he was effectively just next door. It is highly embarrassing.

Unaware of these thoughts, Hubert shifts to settle fully on ground. He is very careful to avoid crushing the mint flowers. He moves with the demeanor of someone used to being careful around delicate and breakable things. He is taller than Ferdinand, and this close, his hair is very dark—a rare black that Ferdinand has not seen on most Men. His hands are gloved, even at this late hour, and he folds them neatly in his lap. Looks up.

Ferdinand’s observation has been too direct. Hubert’s lips twitch before Ferdinand can attempt to look away. 

“Do you see something else you didn’t expect?” 

“Oh,” Ferdinand says, valiantly; he has been caught out but not defeated, “many things. But at least I did not assume you were an Elf.” 

Hubert breathes out audibly through his nose. He looks over Ferdinand, half dissecting and half friendly interest. 

“I feel that my mistake is not unfounded,” he says, voice clearer than his earlier rasp. “You are dressed like an Elf, and you are sitting on a riverbed, examining herbs. You seemed as if part of the land. Is this where you have been living for the past few years?”

Ferdinand feels his expression falter. There is no hiding it this close. He smiles and hopes that he looks apologetic rather than ashamed. 

“No,” he says; Hubert as well as Edelgard, who must also be here for the gathering, deserve his honesty. “I was briefly in Osgiliath, where I received your last letter, and then I was sent to Emyn Muil. I…” 

He looks down. At the mint. The flowers. The leaves. 

“Emyn Muil?” Hubert asks, very reserved. 

For the past few years, Ferdinand has been closer to Rohan than to Minas Tirith. Most of their supplies aside from weapons and books came from Rohan. They were better quality and the same price or less than what came from Gondor, so Ferdinand favoured them on both his personal and military budget. Ferdinand is aware the entire town of Emyn Muil regularly mingle and trade with people of Rohan. He thought a lot about Edelgard and Hubert over the years, especially as rumours surfaced of the King’s illness and the difficulties faced by the Rohirrim in defense of their borders.

“Yes,” Ferdinand says to the mint. “I have been stationed on the Gondor border of the Dead Marshes. I…” and he forces himself to look up only to find Hubert is gazing at him with focused, dark eyes; Ferdinand has to swallow before continuing in a slightly stilted voice, “I found it difficult to write.”

“The Dead Marshes,” Hubert says, eyebrows drawing together. “We have noticed less Men and Orcs of the Enemy there. The stragglers we picked up were all wanderers for the past several years. They said Gondor patrols gave them directions.”

Ferdinand nods. He glances upwards towards where the moon hangs heavy in the clear night sky. 

“It is very late,” he says because it is. 

“Yes,” Hubert agrees.

They both move to stand at the same time. Hubert really is very tall. The moon and the faint light of the lamps seem to reflect off his skin. His hair is so dark that it absorbs the light. 

Ferdinand thinks of how Lúthien was said to have black hair. 

Perhaps, Ferdinand considers as they return to the stone path, the damp of the marshes got into his brain. His skull has filled with mildew. That would explain the absurdity of his own thoughts. 

Hubert is blissfully unaware of Ferdinand’s impending madness. He turns his head to catch Ferdinand’s attention as they begin back towards the guest houses and baths. 

“Why send the Son of the Steward to the Dead Marshes?” 

It is a very loaded question. Ferdinand feels his lips stretch on a smile that is not pleasant. He usually tries to hide these expressions, but he is tired and the afternoon and night has been very pleasant. He knows that at some point he will need to speak to Jeralt about the whispers. He needs to speak with Belegon about where they go from here. He needs to sleep because the gathering will be after breakfast and Ferdinand has not slept well in many years. An Elven bed may change that. 

“I can tell what lights are real and what are not,” he says as they pass the smithy because that is the easiest answer. “Are you and the Lady Edelgard here for the gathering tomorrow as well?” 

Hubert nods, his posture straightening. Mentioning Edelgard seemingly jarred him back into what likely resembles his usual bearing. In their letters, Hubert was always formal to a fault, and some of his responses to Ferdinand’s questions and opinions had irritated Ferdinand initially because they tended to treat Ferdinand as if he was a misguided child. Now, it seems that he has softened somewhat, or the limitations of their abilities to write in Tengwar had exasperated his bluntness. 

“Lady Edelgard would like to meet you,” he says as they pass beneath a cluster of lamps over a bench. “She is still awake at this time.” 

“I would be happy to meet her,” Ferdinand says; he feels he should be clear with his friendly intentions, so he adds: “As I am happy to have met you.” 

Hubert’s step falters. His footfalls are more audible than Ferdinand’s on the stone path, the heels of his boots against the softer fall of Elven shoes. The scrape of his left boot’s toe causes him to jolt. Ferdinand’s hands come up to brace Hubert’s chest and upper arm instinctively as Hubert tilts forward. 

Ferdinand feels rather than registers Hubert’s lips over his own. Their foreheads knock, and Ferdinand stumbles backwards. His hand on Hubert’s upper arm pulls Hubert along. They do not fall, but that is because Hubert’s arms and hands wrap around Ferdinand’s waist to hold them both upright. 

Their lips part. 

Ferdinand realises what is happening as Hubert does.

They pull back. 

Hubert’s face is the colour of summer berries. His pupils are so wide that the green of his eyes is nearly indiscernible. Ferdinand realises his lips are still parted. He shuts his jaw with a click. 

They are still holding each other. 

“Oh,” Ferdinand says, slightly high-pitched; he feels extremely silly. “Well, this is, ah –”

Hubert looks like he wants to say something, but he has begun to turn the colour of plums. He likely cannot say anything. He looks somewhere between mortified and pained. Ferdinand, patting uselessly at Hubert’s chest, has the irrational thought that Hubert may catch fire. 

Perhaps this is what his visions have warned him about.

“We should go inside,” Ferdinand says before he realises how that could be interpreted; Hubert’s eyes go possibly wider and dart around. “I mean –”

“Lady Edelgard,” Hubert chokes out; Ferdinand’s head whips around so quickly that his neck pops audibly, “good evening.” 

“It does seem like you are having a good evening, Hubert,” the Lady leaning on the balcony railing above them says, seemingly mild if not for her smirk that is so wide that it makes half-moons of her eyes. “Have you found yourself the Elf of your dreams?” 

Ferdinand may expire. 

“Lady Edelgard,” Hubert says, and he sounds steady even though he’s the colour of strong wine and his heart beneath Ferdinand’s hand is going rabbit quick, “this is Ferdinand of Gondor.” 

This is Ferdinand’s cue to introduce himself. He should turn and properly lift his head and announce himself to Lady Edelgard, Maiden of the Hall and Rider of the Rohirrim. Instead, Hubert has not let him go, and she has clearly been watching them for enough time to understand what they have been doing. Even though they did not intend on doing it. Whatever it was they were doing.

_Kissing_ , Ferdinand’s useless brain supplies. 

“Ferdinand of Gondor,” Lady Edelgard says, smiling widely now as if this is the best thing that has ever happened to her; she has, Ferdinand realises with a good amount of hysteria, really good teeth; “Well met. Hubert must have expressed how much he has missed your letters.” 

Ferdinand desires to expire. 

“It,” he manages before his voice cracks as if he is fifteen again; he grimaces and clears his throat. “I am glad to meet you, Lady Edelgard.” 

“I am glad as well,” she says, leaning on the railing and looking like she is having the time of her life. “You see, Hubert, you never had to worry that Ferdinand would attempt to court me.”

There are a plethora of possible responses that Hubert or Ferdinand could make to that. All that Ferdinand is able to come up with is an acute sense of shock and faint indignation. He had been careful to always write to Hubert and Edelgard as a pair for specifically this reason. To write directly to Edelgard even after years of letter exchanges would be too forward, and to write to Hubert alone would be an affront to Edelgard’s position. Ferdinand doubts that this is so different in Rohan from Gondor. 

“Please, Lady Edelgard, do not tease,” Hubert says, voice raspy again.

_Oh_ , Ferdinand thinks, further mortified. 

He abruptly realises that Hubert has not said anything to his own defense. 

“Oh,” Ferdinand says aloud.

It is loud for the late hour, but Ferdinand does not notice. He feels as if the sky has cracked open and shown him all the answers to the world’s questions. He looks back to Hubert, who stares at him still very red in the face. He looks again to Edelgard, whose expression is catlike in amusement. He looks down upon himself and where his hand rests over the embroidered emblem of the Rohirrim upon Hubert’s breast. 

Something kicks to life inside of Ferdinand. It could be self-preservation. It could be something else entirely. He feels as if he has been kicked out of his own body to watch his actions as a spectator as he lifts his hands from Hubert’s arm and chest.

“I do apologise,” he hears himself saying, very quickly. “I have been very impolite. I have been too forward. I am very sorry; I have not slept well for the past week. I hope you do not judge me based upon my actions tonight, and I would be eager to meet with you over breakfast or after the meeting tomorrow when we have all had sufficient rest and are not, ah, well, um—Please accept my sincere apologies for departing so abruptly! I need to go to sleep.” 

His body extracts itself from Hubert’s hands as he speaks. He bows to Edelgard on the balcony, and he turns back to Hubert during the last sentence. He finds himself moving back towards the building where his guest room was in a vague trance. The part of Ferdinand that is still himself and registering all of this deliriously observes that Edelgard and Hubert are both bidding him good night. He should say good night. 

Ferdinand considers, as he sits on his very comfortable Elven bed a handful of moments later, that he may be an idiot. 

These revelations do not have time to coalesce. 

Ferdinand wakes up lying on top of his bed covers, a drool stain where his head had come to rest on the very edge of the pillow. He blinks up at the unfamiliar, lightly curved ceiling. The scent of freshly baked bread is on the breeze. Light birdsong filters in through the open window and balcony. 

His brain supplies three thoughts in quick succession:

Melian taught nightingales their secret songs. The Gathering of the Free People of Middle Earth is supposed to occur after breakfast. Ferdinand utterly embarrassed himself in front of the two most important members of the delegates from Rohan. 

Perhaps, Ferdinand considers, he should simply lie here until everyone has left and resign himself to reporting in failure and disgrace to his father. 

Instead, Ferdinand drags himself out of bed. He stumbles into the reception area that is divided from the sleeping area by a privacy screen and finds that there is a basin full of still hot water. A fine shaving blade has been provided along with another vial of hair oil and several soft linen towels. His laundry has been returned and set neatly on the dressing bench. His new hairbrush has even been cleaned. Ferdinand is both utterly impressed and very ashamed of his moment of weakness for considering shirking his duty. 

Belegon comes by just as Ferdinand has finished dressing himself in his dress uniform only to find, to his consternation, the sleeves of his dress tunic and trousers are slightly too short. He enters as Ferdinand considers the state of his riding trouser. These do fit, but they are the very informal brown that blended into the environment of Emyn Muil. 

“Good morning, Belegon,” Ferdinand says, straightening as Belegon gives him a fond smile. “Did you sleep well?” 

“I did, my lord,” Belegon says, nodding to the riding trousers. “You won’t be getting away with those. We should have called for a tailor at the beginning of the social season.”

“I did not intend to attend social season,” Ferdinand sighs, folding the trousers back up. “It is not too noticeable, is it?” 

“You may wish to borrow one of those Elven over-robes,” Belegon says, gaze moving to the basin. “That is a very nice blade.”

Ferdinand nods with a small smile, appreciating the honesty. “It is,” he says, setting the trousers back atop his clothes stack and moving to take the over-robe from the wardrobe of provided guest clothes. “We must endeavour to show such good hospitality back in Minas Tirith, should the Elves ever visit.” 

Belegon snorts. Ferdinand’s smile widens. They both cannot imagine how they would deal with Elves in the Citadel. They would likely leave for how dreary it is if not for some offense by Ferdinand’s father or the court. 

This is also why Ferdinand has been sent to represent Gondor. Ferdinand’s father is not a good man, but he is not a fool. The Elves have great and mysterious power, and at least Ludwig knows when not to make unnecessary enemies. Ferdinand hopes that he can still trust his father’s thinking on this. 

Breakfast is a busy affair. Ferdinand and Belegon arrive just as the table is fully set. The Dwarven delegation, several Elves including Flayn, Jeralt and Byleth, and four people that Ferdinand is shocked to realise must be Hobbits are already seated. Ferdinand and Belegon follow Byleth’s motion to join them where they sit next to the four Hobbits, three of whom are already tucking into porridge with berries and honey. 

“Ferdinand, Belegon,” Byleth says as the sole Hobbit not yet eating scoots slightly over to make room for both of them, “this is Miss Lysithea of House Ordelia in Hobbiton. Lysithea, this is Lord Ferdinand, of the line of Stewards of Gondor, and Belegon, also of Gondor.” 

“It is very good to make your acquaintance, Miss Lysithea,” Ferdinand says, inclining his head as Belegon does the same while serving himself porridge.

“It is also good to make yours, Lord Ferdinand, Belegon,” Lysithea says, bowing in a manner that seems to favour her left side. “Did you travel to Rivendell from Gondor?”

“Yes, ah,” Ferdinand starts just as Belegon takes his porridge bowl, “Belegon, there is no need. I wish to have bread –”

“You should try the honeycomb,” one of the other Hobbits says, their mouth almost completely full.

“And the eggs,” another says, also with their mouth full. 

“And the cheese!” the third exclaims, reaching for the white-rinded soft cheese with cheerful glee. 

“I think,” Ferdinand says as Lysithea sighs and presses her fore and middle finger to the bridge of her nose, an exasperated but fond twist to her lips, “if I ate all of that, I would not be able to make the council meeting because I would need to go back to bed.” 

“Please ignore them,” Lysithea murmurs, lowering her hand and immediately reaching for the eggs. “The eggs are very good.” 

“Then I will have some bread and eggs,” Ferdinand says, watching her serve herself a large portion next to her heaped porridge. “I smelt the bread baking this morning, so I am quite set upon that.” 

Lysithea nods sagely along with the other Hobbit who had suggested the eggs. Ferdinand remembers distantly that Jeralt telling him Hobbits find the greatest sensibility and kinship among those who enjoy the natural world, food, and drink. At the time, Ferdinand had half-joked that this is why the Shire is so well-known for their leaf, particularly the Longbottom Leaf to which no other could compare. 

“I suppose I must introduce you to my companions,” Lysithea says, after she passes the much depleted egg platter to Ferdinand. “This gentlehobbit sat next to me is Annette Fantine Dominic. Those two are Raphael Kirsten and Ignatz Victor.” 

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Ferdinand says, serving himself the last of the eggs. 

“As it is to meet you,” Annette says, very politely. 

“Yeah,” Raphael says as Ignatz bobs his head, mouth entirely full of food.

The rest of breakfast passes in light, unconcerning conversation between Belegon and the hobbits. Ferdinand notices Edelgard and Hubert arrive, and they notice him, but the last space available is at the opposite end of the table next to an Elven delegation, who wear robes of browns and darker greens than Imladris. Ferdinand would guess they are from Mirkwood, and they murmur to each other in Sindarin as they serve themselves bread and fish. Neither they nor Dwarves seem pleased to have to sit next to each other, which makes Ferdinand suddenly very grateful that he has the Hobbits separating him from the tension brewing. 

“Ferdinand,” Jeralt says, as he rises from the table.

Ferdinand turns his attention back and raises his eyebrows in acknowledgement because he has just put a mouthful of eggs and toast in his mouth. Jeralt’s lips twitch. 

As a child, Jeralt often brought Constance and Ferdinand sweet buns before teaching them stories of the First Age. Ferdinand did not talk with his mouth full, but Constance did, too eager to pepper Jeralt with as many questions as possible. Jeralt constantly had to remind Constance to finish chewing before speaking. 

Not for the first time, Ferdinand wonders if he will ever see Constance again. 

“I would speak with you after the council today,” Jeralt says while Byleth also moves to stand and follow him.

Ferdinand nods, swallowing his food. He is very aware that he also needs to try to talk to Hubert and Edelgard, who look to be finishing up their own meal quickly down at the other end of the table. The silent tension of the Dwarves and Mirkwood Elves is very palpable. Ferdinand does hope to introduce himself properly to them as well. Hopefully he has time for everyone. 

“Certainly,” Ferdinand says as he uses the last of his toast to mop up his eggs. “I wish to see the library this evening, so I will be there.” 

Jeralt nods. Turns towards the hall. Byleth reaches out and pats Belegon’s shoulder. Belegon nods back, expression serious. Ferdinand senses this has to do with whatever passed between Belegon and Jeralt the night before. He should ask about it when they have a moment of privacy. Belegon has always been his most ardent supporter and, in these last few years, his closest friend. 

In the years that follow, Ferdinand will come to understand this was when his fate began to take shape. Around him, Hobbits, Dwarves, Elves, and Men drank and ate, all readying themselves for a gathering of races and minds that would make the world around them anew. Ferdinand did not know it then, but in that moment:

His future began to bloom. 

A thousand and one things are discussed in the first couple of hours of what becomes known as the Council of Seteth. Ferdinand is called upon to speak after the Dwarven delegation from the Lonely Mountain, led by Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, get into it with the Mirkwood delegation, led by Claude of the Riegan Archers. Ferdinand speaks of the general state of Gondor before launching into the current state of Osgiliath, the main defense against forces out of the Black Gate, and Emyn Muil and the various activities of the Enemy there. Belegon fetches the map he had brought with him from Emyn Muil when he notices that few faces look confused, and Seteth is kind enough to call for an upright stand. 

“In summary,” Ferdinand says, turning away from the map and trying not to baulk at the undivided attention of about twenty pairs of very intent eyes, “I have been most useful in Emyn Muil and Osgiliath due to some ability of magic. Gondor is able to hold the Northern and Southern border, but, if Mordor’s Black Gate was to open in a concentrated offensive, we have not recovered from the Siege enough to be able to sufficiently manage all these territorial holdings and ensure the safety of civilians and trade routes.”

“That matches our assessment from Edoras,” Edelgard says, her expression hard and grave, completely unlike the night before. “My father’s long illness has not allowed us to look beyond Rohan’s own borders, especially as the Black Breath took the majority of our foals this past spring.” 

Ferdinand grimaces, nodding. “We lost most of our cattle in Emyn Muil,” he says, moving to roll up the map. “Prices have been exorbitant.” 

Edelgard sighs. Not at Ferdinand but rather at the situation overall. Ferdinand returns to his seat between Belegon, who accepts the map back, and Byleth, who frowns at the proceedings overall. 

Edelgard stands, ready to speak on the floor. She is not very tall, but she has a presence that makes her seem so. Her bearing is regal and that of a born warrior, her back and shoulders straight and centre of gravity sure. She wears, Ferdinand is surprised to note, a hand axe and a dagger at her left side. The hand axe has a handle so worn that he can see where exactly her fingers fit upon it. Hubert, who remains seated to her right, does not carry any weapons. 

“In these past couple of years,” Edelgard begins, hard and harsh and every inch the Maiden of the Hall of Edoras, “we have seen increased attacks from the north by wargs –”

There is no good news. Rohan, the Drawven Kingdoms, and Mirkwood have all seen increased Evil. Ferdinand’s map is set back up so that everyone is able to keep track of the different goings on. They continue through lunch, which is sandwiches of fresh greens and fish, discussing the various resources impacted by the growing Evil. Only Byleth and Lysithea, who is the only Hobbit attending the council, keep out of the discussion, although Lysithea is able to answer some questions about the state of the area around the Shire. 

It is after they have all finished eating that Seteth rouses himself on his chair. Jeralt, who has also been mostly silent except to describe his and Byleth’s travels throughout Middle Earth the past few years, straightens. 

“Now that we have a sense of the state of our world,” Seteth says, and Jeralt looks to Lysithea, who has gone very pale, “we must discuss the great burden the Hobbit, Lysithea, has borne. She brings us a dangerous tool that will alter the course of all of our journeys.” 

Lysithea stands. She looks around the room and turns possibly paler. Ferdinand feels great sympathy for her, well-aware what it is like to be under such intense scrutiny. She crosses to the centre of the room where the empty dias sits. Reaches to her neck. Slips her fingers beneath the collar of her shirt and lifts –

“This is the Ring of the Enemy,” Seteth says as Lysithea lays the golden ring upon the dias. “To some here, it is known as Isildur’s Bane. It is the One Ring, cut from the hand of Nemesis and forged in the fires of Mount Doom.” 

Ferdinand stares at it. Ferdinand feels like the whole of the room except for the ring is moving further and further away. 

Lysithea returns to her seat between Jeralt and Byleth. She slumps there, pale and oddly relieved. 

Except for Lysithea, who is returning to her seat, they all gaze upon it. 

The sky seems to grow dark. 

The perfect circle of gold. 

The Ring shines.

Ferdinand –

_the earth swallow them_

He has fallen into the marshes. Mithril is far away. The dead faces are waking. They gaze through the Ring. Dead eyes aflame. Their mouths part. Full of water. 

_and make them same_

He senses that others are speaking. The council is still taking place. Ferdinand should be listening, but he cannot hear anything above the whispering voices growing louder and louder as they never have in his dreams. 

The world is flooding with fog. 

_O the children_

Ferdinand is drowning.

“Then what are we waiting for?” Dimitri from the Dwarven delegation roars, surging to his feet with his great lance in hand.

Ferdinand is paralysed. 

“Let us destroy it!”

_who sleep and weep_

A singing. Metal. Heavy and arching and –

_calling, Calling_

Shattering –

_DO NOT WAKE THEM_

The world blinks out. 

**ix.** The One Ring

The first time Ferdinand saw winged beasts was in his mother’s embroidery. 

In her last year, Finduilas embroidered and sketched frequently. She was bedridden, but her hands were sure and steady. She embroidered handkerchiefs for Ludwig, which Ferdinand knows his father still uses because those are the sole things Ludwig launders himself. Unless his father has utterly changed, Ferdinand cannot imagine he would give up those pieces of his wife. 

Ferdinand sat on her lap or by her side in his parents bed and watched her work. The beasts she embroidered for Ludwig were frightening but stately, much like he was back in those days. They had large wingspans and dense bodies, and they took up a goodly amount of thread. Her fingers had thick, ragged calluses from her needlework, and they were scratchier than Ludwig’s hands, which had begun to go soft since he put down his axe. Looking back, Ferdinand senses his mother had lost a lot of the feeling in her fingers as she could work until her hands bled. 

Ferdinand was very young, but he was attentive, so she taught him a few elementary sewing skills and embroidery stitches. He sat beside her in the light streaming in from the western windows. He learned how to thread the fine bone needles with the various threads of cotton and wool and moth silk. His mother guided his hands to show him how to make a neat row of straight stitches and then how to make crosses and lazy daisies. Even though these were not skills a son of the Steward would usually learn, Ludwig encouraged it. He kept Ferdinand’s childish attempts and treated them with the same love and care as he did Finduilas’ detailed winged beasts. 

Back then, the winged beasts his mother made were not threatening. Ferdinand thought they were intimidating, especially if their mouths were open, but they were not terrifying as they became when they soared over the forces of Mordor into Osgiliath. In those faded days, Ferdinand thought the beasts were fantastic. He imagined what it would be like to meet and triumph over one. Ludwig and Finduilas smiled at him, and, joyful in his parents’ love, Ferdinand smiled back. 

Now: 

The world filters back in slowly. The fog is heavy over Ferdinand’s vision, but he can hear the world again. There is shouting. Angry, raised Westron in many different accents. He can pick out Belegon’s voice, which is rarely raised. Jeralt’s voice, which he has never heard so rough and angry. It is a volley. A torrent. 

_Stop_

His own voice. High and sharp and urgent. Ferdinand finds himself on his feet. His hands are on someone’s elbow. Shoulder. They are taller than him. Solid. 

“Stop,” Ferdinand says again, and he does not know if he is heard; he can barely hear himself. “It is talking to us. It is Evil. _Stop_ –”

“I will take it!” 

Ferdinand’s vision is filtering back in. He blinks rapidly as silence falls and the whispers slip from his ears. He finds that he is clutching Byleth’s hand. They gaze down at him with wide, horrified eyes. Byleth is shorter than Ferdinand now, but Ferdinand is nearly on his knees, having grabbed onto the closest person he could. 

“I will take it,” Lysithea says.

She stands trembling against the eyes of all the Races of Middle Earth. She stands tall and greater than anyone else in the room.

“I will take the Ring to Mordor.” 

When the winged beasts flew into Osgiliath –

“Although I do not know the way.” 

Ferdinand understood everything that was happening. He trembled and called his Light to his hand and threw it aloft. Mithril faced forward. They moved through the water at a canter. A gallop. Together, they ran towards the winged beasts to buy time for those who could not stand and fight to take cover or run away. In that moment, in the heat of battle:

Ferdinand charged towards death.

He was not afraid.

The river that runs through Rivendell burbles. 

Ferdinand sits in the mint and what he now recognises as athelas. He watches the water. He feels weak. Like a newborn colt that has not quite found its legs. He feels cold, too, and is glad for the over-robe that he had borrowed to cover the shortness of his shirtsleeves. He has belted the robe shut, to better keep his own body heat. 

The council adjourned for the rest of the day after Lysithea took back the Ring. They will need to reconvene in the morning to discuss the next steps. No one is of the sound and reasonable mind right now to make decisions. Lysithea will need companions. Guides. Everyone has a stake in what is done with the Ring. 

Ferdinand does not know what to do. 

“You could hear the Ring,” Jeralt says. 

He stands next to Ferdinand, hands upon his wizard’s staff. The end rests deep in the rich soil of the riverbank. It looks like it belongs there. 

Ferdinand breathes in. Out. A fish flits by over the stone. 

“I could,” he says.

It is true. Everyone was there. There is no hiding. Only Ferdinand and Lysithea reacted not in anger and argument. Ferdinand knows that his secrets can no longer be kept. 

He left Minas Tirith because of this. The Dead Marshes were his shelter for four years. He cannot escape his fate now. 

Ferdinand breathes in. 

“It was pretending to be something I know too well to be fooled.” 

Jeralt breathes out. 

“Belegon told Byleth and I that you have had visions.” 

Ferdinand shuts his eyes. He never told Belegon so bluntly, but Belegon has seen how Mithril understands the speech of Men and Elves too well to be a simple horse. He knows that Ferdinand whispers to her, pretending he is practicing Sindarin and Quenya. It is possible, too, that Ferdinand has spoken in his sleep to the whispers. Belegon would have overheard those mutterings as their station in Emyn Muil and camps in the Marshes were so close quartered sometimes they shared the same bedroll. 

That Belegon told Jeralt and Byleth this is a breach of their stations and trust. 

It is necessary. That is why it hurts. 

“I am only a Man,” Ferdinand says because that is the truth of it. “I am very lucky to have had the lessons and the insights that I have had. I am grateful for what I have been given, and I will serve as a son of Gondor as I must. What lies within my blood and in my destiny: I trust my instincts to guide me, even if I do not understand them.” 

“Ferdinand,” Jeralt says, low and gentle in a way that no one has spoken to Ferdinand since he became a soldier, “visions are not meant to be trusted.” 

This is so far off the mark that Ferdinand has to consciously press his lips together. He breathes in deeply, looking down into the river. The clear water. The idling fish. The smooth, beautiful rocks. 

For four years, he watched the dead faces like this. 

“I think,” he says to the fish and the rocks, “that I must acknowledge that they have weight in my life. They are why I asked my father to send me back to Osgiliath, and they are why Mithril has become as aware as she is. After all these years, I am not afraid of them. I know what in this world should be feared. We saw that for ourselves today.” 

Jeralt breathes out. A long, somber noise. 

The fish swims away. Up river. 

“On the battlefield, we are always dancing with death,” Ferdinand says, and he feels free somehow as he speaks; he feels as if the river is carrying all the terrible, secret fears within himself away. “I love Gondor. I love Minas Tirith. I love its white stone walls, and the Tree that waits for its King to return. I love my people. I will live and die in its defense, and I will take joy and grief in its triumphs and failures. This body and spirit: where they rest will be there and not in the Halls of Mandos. Whether this means I will become a dead face in some nameless pool or be laid to rest in the halls of my forebears is not my concern. 

“I am Ferdinand of Gondor, and I will serve until my body rots and I fade from memory. If that means a better world may come to be, and the White City may flourish again free of Evil, and the Tree may bloom under a clear sky:

“Then I am happy.” 

He truly is. Ferdinand looks to Jeralt, who gazes at him as one does an equal. He has always looked at Ferdinand like that. It is now that Ferdinand recognises and understands. 

Ferdinand smiles. 

“I can ask for no more.” 

The road the Ring must travel will be difficult. 

After his conversation with Jeralt, Ferdinand retreats to have some time to himself. He does not know what exactly he should do, except that he needs to do something. He walks for a while on his own along the riverbank. He visits Mithril in the stables, where she is extremely comfortable with her gate left open to a yard full of lush grass and trees. He pets her mane for a while, resting his cheek against the side of her neck as she munches on leaves.

Since Lysithea will carry the Ring, at least one of the other Hobbits will likely go on the journey to Mordor. Ferdinand estimates that with the Hobbits, who are clearly not used to regular, hard travel, the ride to Amon Hen will take longer. They are also somewhat unusual in appearance, so they will not be able to go through more populated areas safely. They should endeavour to avoid any paths which take the Ring close to the Dead Marshes or through the old forests where strange things dwell. If they are able to go around the majority of Emyn Muil by the river Anduin, it would be for the best.

These are the thoughts that lead Ferdinand to notate the map that he had taken from Emyn Muil. It was left in the now empty council room, so Ferdinand retrieves it as the sun begins to set. He borrows ink from an Elf in the library near to the council room and spends several hours at one of the work tables carefully drawing in paths towards Mordor and Mount Doom. It is not easy work. The map is old and on sheepskin parchment, and the ochre in the Elven ink distributes differently than Ferdinand is used to. 

At some point, he becomes aware that night has fallen, and someone has been kind enough to light the lamps for him. They are brighter than the lamps outside and give a clearer illumination than regular candlelight. 

He also senses someone else is in the library with him. 

Ferdinand looks up. Around. 

Hubert is sitting beside one of the lamps, a scroll open on his lap. He looks up from the scroll as Ferdinand’s gaze lands on him. He is still dressed in the same clothes as he wore to breakfast and the council. He looks, especially in the clear lamplight, strained and quite tired. 

“Hubert,” Ferdinand says, setting down the quill and wiping his very dirty fingers on the provided linen, “how long have you been there?” 

“A while,” Hubert responds, voice raspy. “I came to find you after dinner.” 

Ferdinand looks towards the window and is not able to find the moon. He looks back to Hubert, askance. Hubert’s somber expression eases slightly at Ferdinand’s expense. 

“I lost track of time,” Ferdinand says. “I –”

“There is no need for an apology,” Hubert says, carefully rolling up the scroll in his gloved hands. “I have wanted some time to gather my thoughts. Are you marking the map for the Ringbearer?” 

“Yes,” Ferdinand says, and he motions to the ink. “It has taken me longer than I expected. The parchment is old, and I am not used to the ink.” 

Hubert nods. He sets the scroll on the table at his elbow before standing. He crosses the short distance between them and comes to a stop near Ferdinand’s right elbow. His arms and hands rest at his sides. His presence radiates conscious restraint and tenseness. 

“Lady Edelgard will accompany Lysithea and the Ring,” he says.

“Ah,” Ferdinand breathes; he now completely understands Hubert’s tenseness. “Will –”

“I will not go with her,” Hubert says, and he looks over the map and the paths that Ferdinand has drawn out. “I am susceptible to Evil. A consequence of the magic I favour. If I am close to the Ring, it would be too easy to influence me.” 

Ferdinand does not know how to respond to that. During their old letter exchange, Hubert had mentioned that he and his horse were marked as Evil, but he had not expanded upon it. For Ferdinand, it had seemed impudent to ask and irrelevant since Jeralt seemed to think Hubert was an appropriate penfriend as much as Edelgard. Magic itself is not Evil, Jeralt had always said. Just like anything else, it can be made to do Evil things. 

For lack of response, Ferdinand follows Hubert’s gaze. He tracks the main dark orange route Ferdinand has drawn along the river Anduin. It is not an easy journey. Some of the area is steep and rocky, and the river itself at points in the southern reaches is treacherous. Ferdinand assumes travel gear will be kept light, which means additional supplies will be minimal. The main issue will be sustenance. The Hobbits eat a lot, and Ferdinand is not certain how much of that is habit or necessity. Once they get to Mordor, Ferdinand has no idea what sort of supplies they should expect to still be carrying. 

“Are you going to accompany the Ringbearer?” 

Ferdinand blinks. Looks away from Mordor on the map and to Hubert. He looks exhausted. Dark shadows beneath his eyes. Strain stretching his lips and skin. There is an air of desolation hanging about him. Ferdinand wishes he could chase it away. 

“I am torn,” Ferdinand says because he is. “I sense that I am needed in Minas Tirith, although I have not been officially called back. My instincts have never led me astray. At the same time, I know well most of the path that the Ringbearer needs to travel. I have never been further east than the border of East Osgiliath, but I know that border and the character of the Forces of Nemesis well. I suspect this is more than nearly everyone else who may be going on the journey.” 

Hubert watches him through his entire spiel. It feels strange but not in a bad way. It is assessing and intense, and Ferdinand realises no one has ever given him such undivided attention. The only comparison he has is Byleth, who absorbs everything so thoroughly and utterly that it sometimes is frightening. This is simply Hubert paying his full attention to Ferdinand. 

In all of their interactions, even their letters, it has been like this. 

In the light of the library lamps, Hubert shifts. His hands move. Lift. There is some hesitancy, but the clarity of his motion is meant to prevent startling. It is like managing a nervous horse, or someone who has seen too much battle and violence. It is not demeaning. 

It is respect.

“Oh,” Ferdinand says as Hubert takes his hands. “The ink -” 

“My hands are already stained,” Hubert says, bluntly. 

He leans forward.

Ferdinand tilts his head. Meets Hubert’s lips. 

Ferdinand would not count their accidental bump and jostling the night before as anything close to this. As Hubert’s lips move over his and Ferdinand’s tongue brushes against Hubert’s teeth, they breathe together. Ferdinand feels himself smile. Hubert’s lips move. Smiling back. 

Together, they press forward. 

In the Light of the Lamps:

They share their first kiss.


	4. Book 4: Minas Tirith

**x.** The Light in the West

When Ferdinand and Constance were both young enough to sit upon Jeralt’s knees, they shared everything.

The Nuvelle family were not of the highest ranks in the Citadel court, but they were highly respected. Constance’s father was well-traveled and a book collector, and her mother was, especially after childbirth, considered the standard of Minas Tirith society beauty. Although they did not much like Ludwig, they were friends of Finduilas, and that is how Constance became a suitable childhood friend for Ferdinand to keep and vice versa.

Ferdinand is aware certain things from his and Constance shared childhood that, even among nobility, would be considered questionable. They did not share lessons, but they shared tutors. The tutors were also nobility, and they gossiped about their students during social soirées in the summer and the sun and moon festivals in the winter. Ferdinand’s skill at needlework caused a minor scandal when a tutor discovered the doll Ferdinand gifted Constance for her sixth birthday was one that he had made. Constance’s skill in fisticuffs became attributed to her attachment to Ferdinand and the horses, and that was how she became banned from the stables at seven. They both wept bitterly when these instances occurred, and it was only between each other they could seek comfort in whispered words and complaints to Jeralt.

For they did need comfort. Constance was a sweet-faced child, and her mother’s beauty and wit made her blossoming the talk of afternoon tea. No one seemed to want to take the time to know her because all they wanted to talk about was when she would be available to join the adults as a companion and replacement for her mother, who was making airs about retirement from the social season. Constance’s childish combativeness and vivacious questioning was treated with impatience and contempt, and she was scolded and punished far more readily than she was praised.

On the other hand, Ferdinand was too emotional and horribly shy, especially following Finduilas’s passing. He was good with weapons and could ride better than children twice his age, but he wanted to be held and hugged and reassured. His tendency to try to seek physical contact was misinterpreted for aggression, and he ended up getting into more petty fights than he intended. He solved this by withdrawing further, clinging with increasing desperation to his father, Jeralt, and Constance. But slowly his father changed, and then Ferdinand was too large to sit on Jeralt’s knee, and suddenly Constance was gone, and his childhood was over.

Kneeling in Constance’s destroyed bedroom, Ferdinand covered his mouth with his hands and bit his tongue to stifle his bitter cries. He bit so hard that his tongue bled and swelled.

Looking back, Ferdinand understands that this changed him.

By the time he was fourteen and his javelin split open the chest of an Orc in Pelennor Fields, Ferdinand knew better to voice his inner thoughts. The report of his maiden battle painted Ferdinand as a young lord, lithe with hair like forge-flames and resplendent in Gondorian armour, capable of throwing home a lance larger than himself. He was clear-eyed and unflinching, and his battle cry, still high on an unbroken voice, strong. The report made Ludwig smile. He gifted Ferdinand a calligraphy quill and a set of books on the History of Númenor, and he officialised Ferdinand as his heir.

Ferdinand accepted all of this with as much grace as he could. He did not mention the ache in his chest nor the rock in his gut. He did not say that he had not hated the Orc, nor did he say that he felt only sadness for what he had done. His father misinterpreted his reserve for his shyness, and Ludwig laughed and reached out to pat him on the shoulder. He leaned in close so that no one else at court that day could hear them and whispered:

“As much as you are my son, you are your mother’s as well. Perhaps you have little memory of her because you were so young when she passed, but she was much like you. Today, I am proud of you. I am certain she would be, too.”

In front of the court, Ferdinand inclined his head. His hair, chin length then, floated over his cheeks. A seeming nod. It hid the tears welling in his eyes.

He remembered his mother very well. He remembered her hands, her touch, her needle, her thread. He remembered her hair, her eyes, her lips, her face. He remembered, too, she filled her diaries with her thoughts. She kept her own counsel, and she sometimes looked to the west as if she could hear something on the breeze.

Ludwig was right. Ferdinand is Finduilas’s son, but she would not have been proud of him for his actions in battle. She admired all life. That is why she taught Ferdinand needlework. That is why she embroidered winged beasts.

Looking down at the tiled stone of the Citadel:

This is how Ferdinand became a man.

Imladris is quiet and peaceful.

Ferdinand wakes before Hubert. They are in Ferdinand’s room. Hubert sleeps on his back on the further side of the bed from the open balcony. His left arm lies at his side near the edge of the mattress, and his right tucks up over his chest. His right hand is loosely curled as if he is used to clutching something there in his sleep. A sword, or a dagger, or a soft toy, or the bedding.

In the early morning with the scent of bread on the breeze, Ferdinand feels very warm.

He slides carefully from the bed. Hubert does not stir, which is good. He had looked and felt so exhausted the night before, and he does not seem the type who is a natural early riser. His hair falls back above his forehead. He looks quieter like this and like he has had a hard life.

Ferdinand, as he wipes himself down in water from the refreshed basin, wonders if this is what it feels like to fall in love.

In Emyn Muil, Ferdinand had a handful of encounters. He learned to kiss from them, and how to hold another person romantically. He learned a little of what he liked, and that such encounters could be very pleasant. He could not seek such company often because of his rank and how recognisable the features of his line are, but it was safe in Emyn Muil. The people are harder and have greater concerns than who kisses who.

It is different this time. Hubert is the difference. Ferdinand thinks about this as he dresses himself in the informal guest clothes, admiring the comfort of the trousers at the knees. Their kisses were deeper and more satisfying, and Ferdinand cannot think of another time he burned for skin to skin touch. Hubert held him and touched him, and his hands, rough and discoloured under his gloves by magic and calluses, were utterly pleasant. His body was fascinating and enticing, and Ferdinand kept thinking how lovely it would be to see in daylight just as naked. He would like to touch Hubert again. He wants Hubert to touch him, too.

It is entirely different from his previous encounters. Ferdinand, even as he heads to the stables to tend Mithril, desires it not be the last. He likes Hubert, perhaps more now than he did in their letters. The years that passed in silence between them were not lost. Ferdinand knows he is better in himself than he was back when he was nineteen. There were so many things then that he did not understand and therefore feared. This is not Ferdinand’s fault. At that point, there was only Belegon, and there was only so much Belegon could teach him.

Ferdinand arrives at the stables to find that he is not the only one who likes to tend their own horse. The Prince Dimitri is there, chopping a large amount of carrots and turnips to feed his war-boar, who is set up in a well-walled pen outside. Edelgard and Belegon are both loitering there, obviously equally fascinated by the war-boar. This gives Ferdinand the confidence to greet Dimitri, whose lips quirk knowingly under his youthful beard and mustache.

“You Men have your great horses, and us Dwarves have our strong ponies and pigs,” he says, matter of fact and without an ounce of arrogance. “We may not be as swift, but we cannot be felled by a single blow.”

Ferdinand nods. Edelgard’s entire focus is on the war-boar, and Ferdinand senses she wants to speak deeper about Dimitri’s last statement. He catches Belegon’s eye and receives a knowing nod. They excuse themselves politely and move together towards Mithril’s stall in the stables.

“I would speak with you, my lord,” Belegon says once Edelgard’s voice picks up behind them.

“Yes,” Ferdinand agrees.

The interior of the stables is quieter than outside. The Elf Claude is the only other occupant, and he waves at them as he works busily on shoeing his own horse. They exchange polite greetings before leaving Claude to concentrate on the job. Ferdinand unlatches the door to Mithril’s stall and crosses to her as she lifts her head, blinking at them.

Belegon stops in the stall door. Ferdinand turns to him, one hand lifting to rest on Mithril’s left shoulder. Their gazes meet, and Ferdinand _knows_.

“My lord,” Belegon says, and he lowers himself with his left knee in the straw and his head bent forward that the back of his neck is exposed, “with your permission, I would walk with the Ringbearer to represent the Flame of Gondor. I wish to go as I cannot hear the Ring, and the effects of magic—good and evil—are closed to me. I hope I may keep your fate safe for I know in Minas Tirith and the marshes you heard portents of Evil from which you shielded me. It is my sincere wish that you will keep hale and show Gondor into the future the success of this Quest seeks.”

In the great stories, there are portents of these events. Ferdinand, gazing down at the back of Belegon’s neck, never truly imagined he would experience them. His visions, repetitious to the point he became comfortable with them, never registered in his own sense as important on a grander scale. They were his, and he thought that was all they were.

What Ferdinand told Jeralt holds true. His visions have weight, and he knows them well. But they are portents, and nothing occurs outside of the cycle and flow of the world they exist within.

Ferdinand breathes in.

“I do not have the power to allow this,” he says because he does not; Belegon’s allegiance is sworn to the Steward, and Ferdinand is only the heir, “but I give you my leave from my personal service. You have been my greatest support for the past nine years since we fought alongside each other from my maiden battle. You have been my kind teacher and great friend. You know the importance of the Quest, and you ask me with full understanding of how we love Gondor and our place in its defense.

“Rise, Belegon. I would embrace you as an equal and friend.”

Belegon lifts his head. Shifts. He rises to his feet. Takes a step forward.

They embrace. Belegon’s shoulders are wide and strong. He wears his mail beneath even his informal clothing. Ferdinand holds him and is held as well. His heart aches even as they pull apart and smile.

“Thank you, Ferdinand,” Belegon says as Ferdinand shifts his hands to rest on Mithril’s mane and neck. “I am glad to be your friend.”

“And equal,” Ferdinand says.

Belegon’s lips quirk in both gentle denial and amusement. It is a look he used to level Ferdinand often when he was simply Ferdinand’s axe tutor. Those childhood days seem further and further away. Ferdinand has begun to forget what it was like to wield a weapon without thinking of how he can find a swifter way to end his opponent’s suffering.

“As you wish,” Belegon says, unaware of Ferdinand’s thoughts. “I’m going to go find Jeralt and tell him.”

“Of course,” Ferdinand says as Belegon turns to leave. “Let him know I would like to share a pipe with the two of you when we next have leisure time.”

“I’d like that,” Belegon says, and his smile is wide and reaches his eyes.

Ferdinand watches him depart. Listens to his steps cross through the stable and out into the yard. He curls his fingers in Mithril’s mane. Breathes out.

Mithril suddenly lifts her head.

Ferdinand blinks, his hands still on her neck and right hand’s fingers curled in her hair. Her eyes are bright and clear. She gazes at him steadily.

The great hound Huan spoke thrice to Lúthien. He carried her to Beren and to victory.

Mithril is awake. Aware.

Her mouth opens:

_they speak in faded tongues  
they breathe the water in their lungs  
for ev’ry song the birds have sung  
they choke the breath from the young_

_O the children in the pools  
come awake for drowning fools  
death is cold and likely cruel  
forgive these shining, earthly jewels_

Her mouth closes. Her head lowers. Her eyes are still aware, but she seems tired.

Ferdinand realises that he has wrapped his arms around her neck. His hold is not light. He clutches her in much the same manner as he did at nineteen, plagued with the first of his visions. He is older and taller now, though. He can feel how solid she is. He knows her words are her gift. To him. To this Earth.

Together, they charged into the fog.

“My friend,” Ferdinand whispers. “We have come this far, and still…”

Mithril shifts. Presses against him. She knows. She understands.

They will charge together to the end.

**xi.** The Spear of Assal

The Nine Walkers are decided fully at the end of the week. Lysithea will be accompanied by Annette and Raphael, and Ignatz alongside Flayn will travel back to the Shire to muster defenses. Jeralt and Byleth will travel as guides, and Edelgard, Belegon, Claude, and Dimitri will go as representatives of the Free Kingdoms of Middle Earth.

Edelgard comes to find Ferdinand after the last council meeting in the library. She stands for a long moment while Ferdinand fans the drying ink on the final addition he has made to the map. He has marked as well as he is able possible obstacles and areas where they may seek refuge and supplies. Hubert and Edelgard have given input as well as Dimitri and Claude, who ended up having an argument about Moria, and Jeralt, who informed Ferdinand that he should chart a path through Emyn Muil despite his misgivings.

There will be numerous obstacles, and only a handful may be foreseen. Ferdinand is only a Man. Jeralt has seen the passage of ages. The path ahead is beyond any of their reckoning, so all paths are valid should they lead Lysithea and the Ring to Mordor.

“Back when we exchanged letters,” Edelgard says, gazing upon Ferdinand’s work, “I had a rather different idea of how we would meet.”

Ferdinand blinks. Looks up. Her white hair is braided today, low and casual down her back. She did it herself, likely in the early morning. Hubert was in Ferdinand’s bed again. He braided Ferdinand’s hair before breakfast in something he called a fishtail because Ferdinand watches fish in the river so often. It got Ferdinand some ribbing out of Belegon at breakfast and a great deal of interest from Claude and therefore Dimitri before the council meeting.

“I did not know Men had a tradition of courting braids,” Claude said, peering at Ferdinand’s hair with interest.

“Braiding hair is of the utmost importance to us Dwarves,” Dimitri said, also considering Ferdinand’s hair. “It is not only for courting –”

“But it is rather different,” Claude shot back, thankfully saving Ferdinand from needing to find a deeper response than to turn pink and be embarrassed. “I was not aware Men could have hair like yours aside from the Rohirrim, who prefer to wear their hair long.”

“As they should,” Dimitri shot back, which sufficiently distracted both of them from prodding Ferdinand for details. “Hair is important to Dwarves in the family sphere and our broader communities!”

“As it is among the Elves!” Claude said, indignant. “I am of the opinion –”

Ferdinand very carefully extracted himself from their line of fire. He slipped into his seat between Byleth and Belegon, who made jokingly grim nods his way, and very devoutly pretended he was not the reason why Dimitri and Claude were arguing yet again.

Now, there is no escaping the circumstances. Ferdinand does not know how much Hubert has shared with Edelgard, but he suspects that they are rather open with each other. They are closer in age than he and Belegon, and Ferdinand knows that Hubert came into Edelgard’s service quite young. They are akin to siblings as well as lord and sworn sword.

Ferdinand lets his hand still. He lowers the paper fan. Folds it over his lap.

“How did you think we would meet?”

Edelgard’s lips twitch. She looks to Ferdinand. Her eyes are the colour of amethysts. With her white hair, she looks somewhere between the mortal and the immortal world. Ferdinand wonders if she has had visions, or if they will be revealed to her at the prudent time. Yet she may be lucky enough to be free of such things, and for her eyes to only be uniquely coloured.

“I thought that, as we were similar in age and many of our generation in the noble families of Gondor are male, you would eventually seek my hand, and I would be forced to reject you. I dreaded less your reaction but rather the political ramifications.”

Ferdinand grimaces, although some humour stirs with the idea in hindsight. “I rather suspect that could have been the case if I stayed in Minas Tirith,” he says, shifting to face her fully as she stands over his seat. “The reason my father granted my request to return to Osgiliath was due to his assumption that I had a lover there. I did not cure him of the idea. If he was aware of my proclivities…”

He shrugs as Edelgard nods. She considers Ferdinand. Not unfriendly but rather remote. She feels every inch of her position. Ferdinand, who was born to defend and support a Kingdom without a King, lets her look. There is nothing they can judge between themselves except for what they willingly share.

They have both allowed their right hands to go their own ways. Belegon will travel alongside Edelgard, guarding the path for the other Walkers whether they realise it or not. And Hubert –

“You will look after him,” Edelgard says, ungentle but the very opposite of unkind.

Ferdinand inclines his head. He does not say he may only do what he is able. She is the Maiden of the Golden Hall and the future Queen of Rohan. Duty and loyalty and love balance against each other, but sometimes one will weigh greater than all. They both have choices they hope to never have to make, but they will make them.

“The two of you have always treated me with respect,” Ferdinand says. “I hope, as we fight beside each other, to demonstrate that your faith is not misplaced.”

Edelgard blinks. She considers Ferdinand’s face for a moment before inclining her head. Her lips twitch. A ghost of a smile.

They do not speak any further. There are a thousand more things they could discuss, but they opt not to. The drums of war have already found their beat.

Ferdinand stands up. Edelgard shifts to the other side of the work table.

Together, they begin the process of rolling up the map.

They are out of time.

They find Lysithea sitting in the courtyard near to where the Hobbits’ guest rooms are with Annette, Seteth, and Flayn. There are several packs out, all of them overflowing with what appears to be cooking utensils, handkerchiefs, and teaware. Lysithea rises as Edelgard and Ferdinand approach, Seteth attempting to explain as kindly as possible that they must choose one pot to go to Mordor.

“Lady Edelgard, Lord Ferdinand,” Lysithea says as they stop on the edge of the culinary implement mess, “how are you?”

“We are well, Lysithea,” Edelgard says, very gently.

Ferdinand has noticed that she softens considerably around the Hobbits. It is not a difference of respect. Rather, it is completely unconscious. It reminds Ferdinand of her genuine amusement that first night when she caught Hubert and Ferdinand in the courtyard. This makes Ferdinand wonder, with deep sympathy, if the Hobbits remind her of the many siblings she once had. He does not know what having siblings would be like, but he imagines losing them would be like how he lost Constance if not worse.

“We are,” Ferdinand says as he steps forward and kneels, holding out the map in its oilskin and knotted clasp. “I wish to give you my map. As I must return to Minas Tirith and cannot travel with you, I have marked paths you and the Company may take. The main route is in the heaviest ink, and the thinly-lined routes are more dangerous but viable. I do not suggest you take the Dead Marshes, but I have outlined that as well because even the Enemy hesitates to go there.”

Lysithea stares down at the map. She does not reach for it, her hands by her sides. Her soft, unlined face does not match the insight and knowledge in her eyes.

“That is worth more than Bag End,” she says, very softly.

This is true. Ferdinand is not certain what Bag End is. He has gathered from dinner conversations that it is the seat of House Ordelia, perhaps a great house with good land. Even so, there are very few maps like this that are geographically correct and show the names of places in multiple languages. This map is worth more than Ferdinand’s budget for the entire time that he was in Emyn Muil. It is the luxury of his station that it is with him and not back in the library of the Citadel.

His father would have his head for giving this way. Once, this would have been enough to make Ferdinand baulk. With all that has come to pass, it is much lower on the list of transgressions Ferdinand has made in his father’s law.

“Please take it,” Ferdinand says, with some courage, and he holds the map out further. “I know these roads well. I have defended them since my fourteenth birthday, and I would see them made safe in your success.”

Lysithea swallows. She squares her shoulders. Nods. She lifts her hands and takes the map. It is heavy in her hands, but she holds it steady to pass it to Annette, who, with surprising strength, tucks it into the large pack by her side. Flayn and Seteth watch the exchange quietly and with the reserve that only seems to exist in Imladris Elves. The Mirkwood Elves all seem much more expressive and, especially Claude and Hilda, fond of little tricks.

“Thank you,” Lysithea says as Ferdinand gets back to his feet.

“And you,” Ferdinand says as Edelgard steps forward to help Annette sort the packs. “Please rest assured: I will keep the Enemy at bay for as long as I may. When this is done, I implore you to visit Minas Tirith. I would like you to see the view without the Darkness blanketing the East.”

Lysithea smiles. Sincere and very sober. Ferdinand sees in her eyes the knowledge that she is more than likely not to come back from the journey. No matter the strength, wisdom, and loyalty of her fellow Walkers, the Ring is her burden to bear. He can also see that she knows Ferdinand understands this, too.

“I hope to see the White City,” Lysithea says, very earnestly. “I heard that its library is rivaled only by that of Rivendell. I like such places best.”

“I love the libraries as well,” Ferdinand says, and they share calmer, commiserating smiles. “When you come, I will make sure you may see every inch of the library. Our style is very different from the Elves, but I do think we are of equal merit.”

“I look forward to seeing for myself,” she says.

Ferdinand can feel not only how much she means it but the force of will behind her hope. He marvels at this. Her hope is utterly admirable.

It will make the difference in the end.

After a working lunch with Belegon to sort out their diverging affairs, Ferdinand goes to sit by the river. Autumn is coming in. The breeze carries the scent of distant rain, fresh and faintly mulchy. The leaves of the beloved trees shading the valley are beginning to show hints of yellow and red.

Ferdinand watches the fish and pond skippers in the water. The fish are fairly unconcerned aside from a very large one, which is hungry. It catches unaware skippers and drags them down to gulp and swallow. The largeness of its mouth makes Ferdinand think of the dead faces, their lips parted and full of brackish water. This fish has likely eaten its spring-hatched brethren and grown large enough to gain territory and survive winter. It will have first choices in mating come spring.

He wonders if all life is like this. If it is the nature of all living things to desire power and fight to survive.

“As I thought, here he is.”

Hubert’s low rasp carries from the path. Ferdinand looks up and around to see that Seteth and Flayn are with him. Seteth is carrying a tall, wrapped polearm at his shoulder.

“Thank you, Hubert,” Seteth says, very politely. “Lord Ferdinand, may I have your time?”

“Yes, certainly,” Ferdinand says, getting to his feet; he doesn’t miss how Hubert instinctively moves to offer his arm before he hides the gesture. “I was simply enjoying the water.”

“Do you like fish?” Flayn asks as Ferdinand joins them on the path. “Or do you like the plants best?”

“I like all of them,” Ferdinand says as he joins Hubert’s side and they begin to walk back towards the main buildings. “Green and living things do not grow as freely as this in Gondor these days.”

“Oh, that is a shame,” Flayn murmurs. “Is that why you like our breakfast bread and eggs so much? We grow the seeds and wheat and breed the chickens here.”

“Perhaps,” Ferdinand says with a surprised puff of a laugh.

“I have seen you looking at the chickens,” Hubert says, lightly teasing.

“You were looking at them, too,” Ferdinand points out as Seteth raises an eyebrow at him. “You were the one who took me to see them.”

Hubert’s lips purse. Ferdinand smiles. Seteth shakes his head slightly. Ferdinand glances at him, feeling somewhat apologetic for getting sidetracked. They already had to come looking for him.

“I am afraid,” Seteth says, quite gravely, “my conversation is not pleasant.”

Ferdinand nods. Seteth’s eyes are shadowed. It is an old grief.

“I have witnessed the great weakness of Men,” Seteth says as they walk; Hubert’s boots fall distinctly on the stone. “Isildur could not cast the Ring away, and the Nazgûl were easily corrupted.”

Ferdinand nods. He is aware of this history, not from his lessons but from his many hours spent in the Citadel library. It doomed the old alliances between the Free Races and set the foundation for the breaking of Gondor’s line of Kings.

“I heard,” Seteth continues as they cross into a courtyard between the kitchens and a building that Ferdinand has assumed is Seteth and Flayn’s own, “you have been shown portents.”

“Oh,” Ferdinand says, somewhat awkwardly as Hubert raises his eyebrows at him. “Yes. Did Jeralt or Belegon tell you?”

“Mithril told me when I went to give her some apple pieces today,” Flayn says, very gently. “She is very sweet.”

Ferdinand realises that he has stopped. Hubert is staring at him. Ferdinand’s mouth is open. He shuts it as Seteth and Flayn both come to a stop as well. They turn around. Ferdinand feels like the pond skipper caught by the fish.

“What,” he starts; his voice cracks; he flushes and clears his throat. “She told you?”

Flayn blinks. She looks so innocent. Ferdinand suddenly suspects that she is very much the opposite. Perhaps it is not Seteth who has the power to keep Imladris hidden.

As if sensing Ferdinand is too close to a revelation, Seteth steps forward. He pulls the polearm from his back, laying the staff across his hands. Flayn reaches out and brings her hands up to work on the wrappings.

“Is that –” Hubert starts.

“This,” Seteth says as Flayn unwraps the spearhead, “is Assal. It has been my personal weapon for many years. I give it to you to protect the West.”

Ferdinand’s heart twists. He does not want such a great gift. It is not his to refuse.

He will not tremble.

“Thank you,” he says, very quietly.

Seteth watches him, steady and non-judgemental. Flayn folds up the coverings and smiles.

Against Ferdinand’s side, Hubert is steady and warm.

“Why don’t you try it?” Flayn suggests with the gentle and kind forcefulness that only Elves seem to possess; Ferdinand knows definitely now that she is the more powerful. “A weapon needs to get to know its master.”

Ferdinand opens his mouth. Closes his mouth.

Nothing he could say is sufficient. He must take it.

Assal is different from any spear Ferdinand has held. The head is three blades, a long double-sided head bracketed by two shorter blades. It is not a trident but rather like a dual halberd. It weighs, as Ferdinand lifts it and tests his hold, far less than he expected. The pole is very long, which makes sense as Seteth is taller than Ferdinand, but the extra length does not feel odd. It feels as if it is exactly as it should be.

Ferdinand shifts back. He gives an experimental thrust into the empty air of the courtyard. Assal moves with him, and he can immediately feel how easy it would be to use while on Mithril’s back. He guesses, as he makes a few more thrusts, if he did not have any other option, he would even be able to throw Assal like a javelin and have the blow land true.

He slows. Settles. When he turns back, he finds that everyone is looking at him. The usual bubble of anxiety makes itself known in his chest, but Ferdinand has lived his life quashing it. Seteth steps forward to offer the spear’s cover and the carrying strap. Ferdinand accepts these without hesitation. They, like the spear, likely have their own properties.

“The blades were forged in Doriath, and the coverings were sewn in by my mother,” Seteth says as Hubert moves to Ferdinand’s side to help wrap the head. “The staff is a branch of a great tree that my brother and I used to climb.”

Ferdinand holds the spear steady as Hubert briefly considers the wrappings’ straps. Like the spear, they are oddly light. Ferdinand is not sure from what hide they are made. The clasps are silver. They are engraved with waves and stars. Seteth’s mother was the wife of Eärendil the Mariner.

“This can conduct magic,” Ferdinand realises.

Seteth and Flayn both nod. Hubert buckles the wrappings, glancing with some curiosity at Ferdinand for his shy tone. Ferdinand cannot help it. He feels as if he is eight again and hiding behind Constance as she demands more knowledge from an adult. Hubert stands just between him and Flayn. The only difference is Ferdinand is not making Hubert speak for him.

Behind Hubert, Flayn smiles. Seteth does not, but his eyes are kind. Calm.

Ferdinand breathes in. Out. Hubert gazes at him. He knows.

“Thank you,” Ferdinand says.

He means it.

**xii.** The White City

The ride to Minas Tirith is two and a half weeks on swift horseback. Without his map, Ferdinand has to depend upon his memory as does Hubert, who knows some secret ways through the White Mountains. There is the threat of Isengard, which has fallen to the side of Evil, and they both must hope that they do not attract the attention of that force or Mordor. They depart two days before the Nine Walkers and one day after the Mirkwood Elves sans Claude, all hoping to confuse and distract any watching eyes.

Unlike the Mirkwood elves, Ferdinand and Hubert only take the essentials. Ferdinand bears Assal and his sword, but he leaves his ill-fitting formal clothes behind to carry lembas to supplement their diet because hunting and foraging has been poor with the Black Breath spreading. Ferdinand takes one luxury in allowing Claude to reshoe Mithril. Hubert accepts the same for his mare, Hestia, who truly is so dark that she looks as if she is of the Enemy. Her eyes, however, are a mild brown, and she has an extremely mild temperament.

“She is not a war-horse,” Ferdinand observes after their first day together on the road.

“No,” Hubert agrees before he nods towards Mithril, “but neither is yours. She would be appropriate as a favoured hunting or show-mount, not to carry you in armour.”

“I do know that,” Ferdinand says, amused because this is the attitude from their old letters at which he would take offense. “That is why I do not wear armour.”

Hubert snorts. He rolls onto his knees. Into Ferdinand’s space. Ferdinand lets him.

This is how they travel. They avoid settlements and spend their nights under the stars because the weather is dry. Hubert favours the bow, and he hunts a rabbit one evening as they cross through the White Mountains. He shows Ferdinand that he can make fire and lightning from magic, which explains the state of his hands since he uses them rather than a staff or wand. In return, Ferdinand shows Hubert the pale, pulsing light of his own magic. It draws a strange, wide-eyed look that Hubert cannot hide as they huddle together next to their dinner.

“So that is a wizard’s magic,” he comments, low and almost garbled.

Ferdinand presses a kiss to his cheek. Earlobe.

“What do you mean?”

Hubert looks into the fire. Fat drips from the rabbit, which is roasting on the spit Ferdinand made. The fat hisses and sputters in the flames.

“I was not born in Edoras,” Hubert says at length. “I was born to my mother near here in the Thrihyrne. She had fled there and brought me into this world in a small hovel with the help of a witch whose home she settled in. That is where I spent my first years until I was twelve and both my mother and the witch caught their deaths of plague. A patrol of the Rohirrim found me when I ventured into the Gap of Rohan to look for food, and they took me back to Edoras.

“I entered into the service of the Golden Hall as a stablehand and into the service of Lady Edelgard when she caught me practicing witch’s magic. She desired to learn it, too, but that is the one thing Lady Edelgard lacks in. I think it was allowed because the court saw me as another of Lady Edelgard’s strange toys, and Ionius was eager to keep his remaining heir alive and happy. You know the plague decimated the ruling line.”

Ferdinand nods. He shifts to his knees. Turns the rabbit on the spit. Hubert stares at the flames. They don’t reflect in his eyes.

“Ionius was different then,” Hubert says, and Ferdinand senses there are a thousand and one things these words cover. “Lady Edelgard was his youngest girl-child. She was nine then, but her hair was already turning white—a consequence of the potion that helped her and Ionius recover from the plague. The herbs from the far south came too late to help anyone else. I…”

His voice fails him. He looks down. At his hands that rest in his lap.

Ferdinand settles back. Reaches out. He curls their fingers together. After a long moment, Hubert squeezes his fingers. Leans against Ferdinand’s shoulder.

He is so warm.

“Because I am also a witch’s son,” Hubert murmurs, soft and free of his rasp as he noses against the shell of Ferdinand’s ear, breath tickling Ferdinand’s hair and skin, “I knew how to make better potions that do not hurt the body so severely. When I showed Lady Edelgard, she took me to Ionius. He bade me rise and gave me my belt. They gave me a home when I had none.”

Hubert’s lips press against Ferdinand’s ear. Move over the sensitive skin behind it. Ferdinand breathes out. Uneven.

The fire sputters.

“That,” Hubert whispers as Ferdinand tilts back and Hubert clambers over his body, flames at his back, “is how a witch’s son became concerned with the affairs of Men.”

“I am glad you are concerned,” Ferdinand murmurs as Hubert leans down and kisses him.

_I am glad,_ he thinks as he tangles his fingers in Hubert’s hair, _that you are here with me._

They make a home in each other under the starry sky.

They arrive at the western gate of Minas Tirith in the late afternoon of their fourteenth day on the road.

The white granite and limestone of the city walls and main buildings tower upwards against the mountains. To the East, the Darkness of Mordor looms, but the afternoon sunlight shines bright and jewel-like upon the city. It seems as gorgeous and grand as Ferdinand thought it was in his youngest days.

He looks to Hubert, who rides beside him. Hubert’s eyes are upon him, lips quirked at what expression he finds there.

Ferdinand wants to lean over and kiss him.

“Welcome, Hubert of Rohan,” he says, gesturing with the wrapped head of Assal, “to Minas Tirith.”

They do not say it, but they know that they are upon their first battlefield together.

The guards recognise Ferdinand at a distance by his hair, but they do not open the gate until Ferdinand rides close enough to call his greeting to them. The Captain of the City Guard comes to the gate to confirm his identity, but he is someone that was promoted during Ferdinand’s absence and is not certain. He is also spooked by Hestia’s appearance, despite Ferdinand and Hubert’s reassurance that she is just a horse. They end up stopped at the gate for nearly half an hour before Ferdinand, at the end of his tether, draws himself up and demands:

“Where is General Bergliez? Or General Randolph? Or Captain Fleche? Or even Caspar? One of them must be on duty. Go find someone who will properly identify me and isn’t afraid of a single black-coated horse!”

The Captain baulks at this, turning red in the face. “My lord,” he begins.

“At least send someone to report my arrival to my father,” Ferdinand says, a direct challenge because at this time court is closing session and a trip to the Citadel would mean that Ferdinand and Hubert will be kept at the gate until well past nightfall. “Tell him that his son is home.”

The idea of evoking the ire of the Steward is enough to motivate the Captain to smother his pride and send a squire to retrieve Caspar, who is currently serving in the Lower City Guard as a lieutenant. He has grown taller in Ferdinand’s absence and increased in bulk to wear heavy armour. His reaction to Ferdinand, however, is exactly as he always has been.

“Ferdinand!” Caspar bellows as he comes into the guard house and sees Ferdinand sat in the light of a candle with his arms crossed. “What’re you doing here? Where’s Belegon? Who’s this dark-haired guy? Is he with you? You’re not going to make it to the Citadel until midnight at this rate!”

“Caspar,” Ferdinand says, standing up as Hubert straightens from his contemplation of his gloves. “It is good to see you.”

“Same,” Caspar says before jabbing his finger in Hubert’s direction again. “Did you transform Belegon with a magic trick or something?”

“What,” Hubert says, very unamused.

“No,” Ferdinand says, feeling very exasperated and unable to keep it out of his voice. “Caspar, am I Ferdinand, of the line of Stewards of Gondor, or not?”

Caspar squints at him. He considers this question very much for what it is. Ferdinand has wondered over the years if Caspar might have had a blow too many to the head. He knows Caspar is not thinking about skinshifters. He also has no intention of introducing the concept to anyone present at this time.

“Why’s your hair like that?” Caspar asks.

Ferdinand tries his very best not to shut his eyes on the sigh that bubbles up through his chest and escapes his lips. Hubert boggles, glancing between Caspar and Ferdinand like he is reassessing all of his opinions about Minas Tirith and its competency. It is not entirely unfounded; Ferdinand finds himself ready to carry out a reassessment and possible restructuring of the entire City Guard.

“I have not had time to cut it,” Ferdinand says as levelly as possible. “Caspar –”

“Oh, yeah, you’re obviously Ferdinand,” Caspar says, bobbing his head sagely before turning to the Captain of the City Guard. “Is this all I was needed for? Come on, Theo! What other person’s going to have hair like that?”

Ferdinand does sigh then, feeling extremely weary.

They are held up for half an hour more with the Captain’s profuse apologies and Caspar’s chatter. Night has fallen as Ferdinand and Hubert are finally able to ride Mithril and Hestia up the seven levels to the Citadel. At least their horses were watered and fed at the main gate else Ferdinand would have had to worry they would be too weary to make the uphill journey. Caspar follows them up to announce them and ensure they are not further delayed at the different levels’ gates.

“Oh, yeah,” Caspar says when they get to the Citadel and he is about to go home himself, “welcome home, Ferdinand! And welcome to Minas Tirith, Hubert of Rohan! Hope your dad’s awake, Ferdinand. I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you.”

“Ah,” Ferdinand says, but Caspar is already rushing off home.

Hubert breathes out. Not a laugh. Just bafflement. When Ferdinand glances at him, Hubert shakes his head. He does not seem to know what to say.

Ferdinand desires nothing more than to eat a slice of bread and go to sleep.

That is not what must occur. The Citadel guards recognise Ferdinand and Mithril, and they send word without being asked to inform Ludwig of his return. By the time Ferdinand and Hubert get to the stables, the night staff know to expect them. Mithril is taken to the same stall that she had always inhabited, and Hestia is set up in the stall reserved for visiting dignitaries.

Hubert eyes their surroundings with subtle suspicion as much of the Citadel is designed for privacy rather than easy security. There are multiple shadowed alcoves and hundreds if not thousands of hidden passages. Ferdinand has made great use of the passages to escape lessons in his youth.

“Is this different from Edoras?” Ferdinand asks, mostly to fill the air and hopefully make Hubert speak and appear friendly rather than judgemental and standoffish.

“Yes,” Hubert says, taciturn and reserved.

“My lord Ferdinand,” the stablemaster, likely roused from his evening meal based on his attire, says; his appearance forces Ferdinand to turn his attention from Hubert, “your lord father sent me. He is in the throne room.

“He would see you.”

Ludwig is diminished.

That is the only way that Ferdinand can think of to describe his father as he looks upon Ludwig in the Steward’s Chair. His body has softened noticeably in his heavy robes, and his eyes have a yellowed quality from too much drink. He has gone mostly bald, and the mustache he always favoured has grown sparse. The red hair that he and Ferdinand share of their line is mostly white, making him look even wearier.

This surprises Ferdinand less than he feels it should. The lack of surprise adds to the guilt and private hurt.

“Father,” Ferdinand says as he kneels.

Ludwig gazes down at him. He does not rise. He does not open his arms. He does not frown. He does not smile.

“My son,” he says, and his voice has also lost its bellowing strength, although it is clear and carries well in the throne room. “It is good to see you. I see you bring a guest.”

“Yes,” Ferdinand says.

He twists around to motion Hubert to come forward only to find that Hubert took Ferdinand’s kneeling as a queue to get on his own knee a full two paces behind him. Ferdinand turns back to his father, who has not taken his gaze off of him. It makes Ferdinand feel very small.

“This is Hubert of Rohan,” Ferdinand says because there is nothing else he can do but continue to follow the script. “In Imladris, I met Lady Edelgard, Maiden of the Golden Hall. We came to an agreement regarding those in our service, and Hubert has returned to the White City with me and Belegon serves at Lady Edelgard’s side. We hope this show of faith between our kingdoms offers good tidings and renews the alliances of old—this is the goal of the Gathering. We hope to rekindle the prowess and glory of the trust once shared between our kingdoms and the Races of the Free People of Middle Earth before Nemesis the Deceiver cast us all into the flames of war.”

Ludwig stares down at him. Ferdinand stares up at him. The torches flicker in the throne room. It feels so cold.

Ferdinand does not shiver.

“It is late,” Ludwig says as if Ferdinand had said nothing at all. “You should rest, my son. Find quarters for your guest. We will speak more in the morning. I will send for you.”

In the damp of Emyn Muil, he got used to the cold.

“Yes, Father,” Ferdinand says, bowing his head before standing.

He turns. Hubert is nearly to his feet. Ferdinand passes him as he fully straightens, and they exit the hall together as they kneeled: Ferdinand in front, Hubert two paces back. It is not a necessity in the Citadel court as Hubert is a guest, but it is proper court etiquette for their relative stations. Ferdinand waits until they are in the hall heading towards where his rooms are before he slows his pace to walk beside Hubert.

They do not speak as they walk through the public hall and up the main stairwell to the Steward’s family living quarters. They do not meet anyone in the halls or on the stairs, but, especially here, the walls have ears.

Ferdinand’s rooms are on the western-most part of the Citadel. They are much as he left them four years prior. There are dust clothes over the mirrors, and the drapes are still drawn. It has been recently swept, but the rugs have not been laid out. No fire has been lit in the main hearth, so Ferdinand goes to that first. He feels around on the mantle for the matches before he feels Hubert touch his elbow.

“Let me.”

Ferdinand moves back. Hubert crouches down and extends his hand into the heath. The wood is old and dry, but Hubert’s magic sparks it easily and crackles to life. Ferdinand crosses back to the main door to pull the bell for one of the night staff to request more firewood. He is not sure if he should ask for the guest room within the Steward’s residence to be set up or if he should ask for a different guest room within the Citadel for Hubert. Both are appropriate for Hubert’s station as a Rohan dignitary.

“I will ask for some leftovers of dinner,” Ferdinand says, glancing back to find that Hubert is watching him. “What?”

“Your father,” Hubert says, standing up next to the hearth. “He reminds me of how King Ionius is now.”

Despite himself, Ferdinand falters. He looks down. His hands are at his sides. His boots are dirty from travel. He would like a bath, but it is very late to call one. The fires to boil water are likely cool now. The earliest he would be able to bathe is about an hour after the bakers get the main fire started, and that is the time he usually tends Mithril. She and Hestia need a thorough washing from the past two weeks’ travel.

He thinks of the Orc he let go in the Marshes. He did not have the right to judge them. He was glad they could run away.

Ferdinand cannot abandon Gondor, but he understood.

“We are always dancing with death,” Ferdinand says, and he lifts his gaze to find that Hubert gazes at him with agreement and acceptance. “War is here. I must hope to meet the Enemy in battle in glory and flame and chase the Shadow out once and for all.”

Hubert breathes in deeply. He crosses the room. His boots sound on the stone floor. It is smooth and hard, meant to be dressed up with rugs for comfort. Ferdinand leans into the hands that reach for his hair. He rests his cheek on the curve of Hubert’s shoulder and lets himself be held close as he wraps his arms around Hubert’s waist.

The walls have ears. Eyes. But Ferdinand cannot let himself fear them. He is not nineteen anymore. He can no longer run away.

Hubert breathes out. Against Ferdinand’s ear. It tickles his hair.

“I will dance with you.”

Ferdinand holds them close. He does not give his permission. He cannot. Hubert will never be his to command.

They choose this freely, and it is good.

Down in the town, across the field, and over the river, the forces of Nemesis prepare.

Mount Doom rumbles. Plumes of molten rock and flame.

The White City gleams. An easy target.

They are coming.


	5. Book 5: The War of the Ring

**xiii.** The War of the Ring

In the end, Ferdinand does not have to make a decision about Hubert’s guest quarters. 

His father sends word before Ferdinand and Hubert have finished their plain dinner in the reception room that Ferdinand will go to Osgiliath. He will take up the title of General to command the defense of the city. Osgiliath has been under intermittent attack for the past several months, and they are in desperate need of an experienced commander. It is optimal for Ferdinad to go as he knows Osgiliath well, and he and Mithril’s presence will raise the dismal morale. Ludwig makes no mention of Ferdinand’s magic, but that is because he still disapproves of it rather than strategically acknowledging its merits. 

The messenger, a young woman in a cadet uniform who looks nervous and cowed, lingers awkwardly as Ferdinand reads over the orders. Most of it is in a scribe’s hand, and the only part that Ludwig did himself aside from dictating the orders is to apply the Steward’s seal. This has been the case for at least two years aside from the most sensitive information Ferdinand has received. 

Ferdinand feels something deep within his heart. It is too painful to acknowledge consciously. So he doesn’t.

He rolls the orders and his promotion verification back up. Sets them by the last slice of bread on the table. He senses Hubert’s apprehension and curiosity but cannot address him yet.

“May we rest for the evening and set off in the morning?” Ferdinand asks.

“I don’t know, Lord Ferdinand,” the messenger says, fidgeting almost imperceptibly; she looks more cowed than before. “Would you like me to ask?” 

“Yes,” Ferdinand says even though it makes him feel bad; his father has never taken kindly to being disturbed from sleep; he is also suddenly extremely aware of how tired he is. “Go now. Tell my father I am humbled by his acknowledgment. I wish for time to clean myself of the road and draft a supply list.” 

He waits until the messenger shuts behind the messenger before sagging back against his chair. Hubert raises an eyebrow, and Ferdinand nods, rubbing his right hand through his hair. Hubert reaches over to pick up the orders, unrolling them to read over himself in the candlelight. They are both still dressed in the traveling clothes they’ve worn for over two weeks, having stopped to wash them once when the weather was warm. They had swum naked and laughing in the shallows of River Anduin while they waited for their underwear to dry. 

“Ferdinand,” Hubert says, drawing Ferdinand back; he realises that he has been staring sightlessly into the hearth, which is bright and crackling pleasantly with Hubert’s witch-fire. “Finish your dinner.” 

“Oh,” Ferdinand says, turning back and shaking his head to try and clear his thoughts. “Yes –”

“Do not apologise,” Hubert says, rough in tone and very kind. “Do you want the rest of the bread?” 

“Yes, please,” Ferdinand agrees, accepting the small piece as Hubert passes it to him. “I am afraid Minas Tirith has not lived up to my words in its impressions.” 

Hubert’s lips twitch. He does not insult Ferdinand by attempting to placate him. Unlike his father, Ferdinand has no liking for flattery. His time in Imladris has made him realise that he doesn’t even like compliments particularly unless they are of his skill at riding and with weapons. 

They are given leave to remain in Minas Tirith to rest for the evening and muster supplies. Ferdinand caves and asks for the indulgent luxury of a hot bath to be drawn in the morning. Hubert goes briefly to see the Citadel library in this time, and he returns with a copy of the map that Ferdinand gave away to Lysithea. He also brings coffee and dried apples and mint from the kitchen stores. 

“Oh, you didn’t have to,” Ferdinand says as he stands still while the blacksmith and two apprentices work hastily to fit him new light mail. 

“I enjoy coffee,” Hubert says, taciturn but with a mischievous light to his eyes. 

Ferdinand wants to pull him close and never let him go. 

Osgiliath is ruined.

It is, at this point, little more than a large defensive outpost. The remnants of the eastern town are nothing more than craggy posts of stone and a few stubborn oak pillars. Some citizens still live there, but it is because they are either too old to travel or have no resources to establish themselves elsewhere. The habitable sections on the west and south sides are broken by large piles of rubble that can also be used as barricades. The small and smelly but cosy building Ferdinand, Belegon, and Byleth lived in during the Siege is gone. A boulder, likely flung from an Enemy catapult or troll, seems to have taken it out at the foundation. 

Ferdinand stares at it over his shoulder as he and Hubert ride past. He forces himself to turn himself forward, grateful that Mithril kept his path and progress steady. Hubert’s eyebrow is raised when their gazes meet. Ferdinand feels his lips in an attempt to smile, but it is a poor effort.

“I lived there for a while,” Ferdinand says.

“Ah,” Hubert says because that is all that can be said about that.

Ferdinand and Hubert are set up in a retrofitted building in the south-western part of the city. They traveled with more weapons and light mail from Minas Tirith, but the rest of Ferdinand’s supply list will arrive in increments due to shortages. Ferdinand is even more grateful they had the foresight to save almost all of the lembas as hunting and fishing is almost out of the question here. The water is brackish and likely contains unaccounted dead bodies and debris. 

The state of Gondor’s forces is poor. Many of the labour corps do not even have proper shoes. It is not simply a shoe shortage. The cattle loss in the past year has meant there is little leather to go around, and it is too expensive to use imported leather as there is demand throughout Middle Earth. Most of the troops are also working in only partial armour, and repairs are slow beyond a basic patch job because pieces must be sent back to Minas Tirith. Thieves have boldly attacked supply lines going in both directions, and only minimal security is spared to protect all but the most urgent transporta and mail. 

Ferdinand listens to these reports from his new captains, feeling increasingly disheartened. The situation should never have come to this. Ferdinand and his small force in Emyn Muil should have been called back to Osgiliath with the first attack, and the Steward should have reached out to their allies in Rohan and Dol Amroth and even Dale. Instead, Ludwig has treated Osgiliath as barely secondary to the immediate needs of Minas Tirith. His concern for his power in the Citadel has blinded him to anything out of his immediate sight. 

It is not dissimilar, Ferdinand acknowledges very lowly, to how he views his own son. 

It hurts, but it is the truth. Ferdinand cannot fathom any longer what his father’s reasoning is. He cares little for living things and even less for what he cannot directly see and touch. There is nothing of the father that Ferdinand once adored in Ludwig now. The evidence is laid out upon the banks of the River Anduin, which is all that protects Gondor from the reaches of Mordor. 

“Ferdinand.” 

Hubert’s voice filters through these thoughts, drawing Ferdinand back to the map that they have out on a rickety table. Ferdinand blinks. Looks up to find that Hubert is watching him. He wonders what he looks like. He wonders, too, how long he has simply been standing here off within his own head. 

Belegon was very used to Ferdinand’s distance. He was careful not to question. Ferdinand does not want to repeat the same mistake again. 

“My apologies,” Ferdinand murmurs, his head still muddy and with edges of fog to his vision. “I was thinking about my father.”

Hubert nods. He does not have to voice why he understands. If Ludwig is like Ionius, Hubert, as Edelgard’s closest companion, knows much of the form of Ferdinand’s thoughts. 

Because of this, he is also able to offer perspective. 

“I do not know my father,” Hubert says after a long moment of considering Ferdinand’s bearing and visage. “My mother said that she loved him, and he loved her, but he was killed by bandits before they came to fully know each other. My mother fled because she knew I was in her belly, and the witch took her in because she thought my mother beautiful. My father never knew my mother’s true name, and she did not know his.”

Ferdinand crosses around the table. He leans next to Hubert. Follows his gaze upon the map to the Gap of Rohan. To Thrihyrne. 

“What are the names?” 

Hubert’s lips twitch. He looks to Ferdinand, warmed and amused by his sincere curiosity. His happiness makes Ferdinand smile as well.

“My mother was named Edith,” he says as he lifts an arm so that Ferdinand may cuddle close to his side. “She said my father called himself ‘Aran’. He was a Ranger of the North.” 

“The North?” Ferdinand murmurs. “Like the Dúnedain?”

Hubert is quiet. Ferdinand looks up at him to find that Hubert’s eyebrows have drawn together in an expression that can only be described as consternation. 

“I don’t know,” Hubert says, completely honest and pained for it. “Lady Edelgard asked me the same when I shared with her, but we did not pursue the inquiry. She was made Maiden of the Golden Hall, and we did not have time to seek information about my father while serving alongside the rest of the King’s Riders.”

Ferdinand nods. He considers for a long moment before his curiosity and courage wins out. 

“The Dúnedain are long-lived and have skill with magic,” he says as Hubert gazes down at him, some of the pain subsiding in curiosity. “It was rumoured for many years that they fostered their Chiefs in Imladris, which is why the map I gave to Lysithea has the location marked. An old rumour implies that the line of Chiefs contains blood of the royal line of Númenor and Gondor’s line of Kings.” 

Hubert snorts. He shakes his head and squeezes Ferdinand’s shoulder. 

“That is silly,” he murmurs, very amused.

 _Actually, it makes a lot of sense_ , Ferdinand thinks, but Hubert leans down to kiss him and Ferdinand wants this more and not an argument. 

They have been close here in Osgiliath. They share the same bed every night, and, even though no one says anything, Ferdinand knows that who they are to each other must be rumoured or known. He does not fool himself. Hubert has also noticed how people come to him to ask to speak with Ferdinand or ask advice on how they should approach their general with various issues and troubles. Hubert is comfortable in this role because it is similar to how he served alongside Edelgard with the Riders. 

Ferdinand tries not to worry. It is pointless. There is so much more to worry about in Osgiliath than if the General is too fond of the Rohan diplomat, who is doing more than pulling his weight in the defense of Gondor and the West. Hubert himself shines in his role among the troops and the labour corps. He has a keen attention for small details, and he is clear and honest in both his praise and criticisms. Hestia is initially feared by most of the troops, but they warm to her as they did Mithril when they see what skill she has with Hubert astride her back. 

Fighting alongside Hubert in the skirmishes at the break of dawn and the middle of the night is the only time out of Hubert’s embrace when Ferdinand’s heart beats easy. He trusts Hubert to handle himself and to use his magic well, and his witch-fire lights the darkness so more of Gondor’s forces may see their Enemy and avoid ambush. Ferdinand rides at the front, his pale Light flooding the eyes of the initial assault, and Hubert keeps safe the flanks and behind. 

In the thick of battle, Ferdinand feels more and more at peace. 

Mithril has not spoken again, and Ferdinand’s dreams have not changed, but he feels as if he understands the meaning of her portent. Osgiliath floods during high tide, and Ferdinand finds himself attracted to the water where he watches loaches and snails wriggle among the rubble and debris. There are murmurs among the troops about his habits of facing the East in these moments, his hair moved by the breeze. A copper war-banner. Waiting for the fated engagement. 

Ferdinand’s mind drifts with the water. He thinks of the Book of Tales Jeralt gifted him years before. Of reading lays of Beleriand and Gondolin and Númenor. Of Constance’s questions and Edelgard and Hubert’s Tengwar letters. How, in the arrogance of Men and Evil things, Númenor sank into the sea.

Ferdinand breathes in the damp, rotting air. He watches crests of lava arching into the black clouds over Mount Doom. He thinks of Lysithea and the almost certain impossibility of the Quest. He thinks of Constance, holding their lights together between their palms. He thinks of his mother. Her callused, blooded fingers working her needle and thread. The handkerchiefs Ludwig once treasured with her winged beasts. In the strange peace this vigil gives him: 

Ferdinand suspects he will not survive the war. 

Hubert comes to him when he is like this. He brings Ferdinand bread if it is day and tiny pieces of the lembas they have saved if it is night. Ferdinand eats the food and lets Hubert draw him back from the water and the East with the promise of an embrace and warmth in their bed. In those moments, there is nothing else in all the realms of the world but Hubert. Ferdinand could kiss him to fill the days, hours, minutes and take joy and delight in their existence.

It is because of Hubert and how Ferdinand adores him that, when the end comes, it is far too soon. 

There is never enough time to love. That is the tragedy of mortals. To live and die and always desire more time. 

But it is also the beauty of mortals. For, knowing they will die, they love all the more and ardently, passionately seek to connect to each other. In the face of great power, their hearts blossom. In the face of great adversity, they bloom. 

As a great chronicler of Middle Earth once said:  


    War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. 

    I love only that which they defend.

The forces of Nemesis are amassing across the river. 

Ferdinand has seen this before. During the Siege of Osgiliath, there were four major assaults in the first year. Battering rams and trolls in chains and gigantic catapults were set up at the bank, waiting for low tide to be brought across with thousands of Men and Orcs of Nemesis. Back then, Gondor had the muster and the resources to meet the assaults. They fought for multiple days and nights, and, eventually, forced the Enemy to retreat. 

Now, Gondor cannot withstand the assault. There are no more troops to activate, and all the resources at hand are already here. Civilians have even come from Minas Tirith and the surrounding area to help since Ferdinand and Hubert came to Osgiliath. Ferdinand has no idea why this has happened, but it has and they have taken up what arms they can find. Ferdinand does not insult them by begging them to go home. They will not be enough. The defense of Osgiliath is to be a slaughter. They came because they love their home and their families and their friends. They all understand this.

It is the providence of mortals to choose freely how they live and how they die. 

So Ferdinand makes himself accept this. He allows himself a jag of bitter tears in the privacy of his and Hubert’s bed. Hubert holds him but does not comfort him. There is nothing to comfort, simply truths that are difficult to bear. It is better to cry than create resentments and regrets. 

Hubert sends letters to Edoras and other towns in Rohan to call for aid, and Ferdinand does not stop him. The aid will not come in time if it comes at all, but perhaps it will help Rohan survive or attract forces to defend Minas Tirith once Osgiliath falls. Hubert writes, too, to Seteth and Flayn Imladris, although that letter’s contents he keeps to himself. 

Ferdinand, too, writes letters. He writes a Will to be taken to the Citadel and instructs the messenger to read it before the court. He writes a personal letter to his father into which he pours memories of Finduilas and Ludwig as they once were. He writes shorter letters to Bernadetta, Caspar, and Linhardt, who he shared lessons with and did not entirely dislike. After some consideration, he also writes letters for Belegon, Jeralt, and Byleth, which he sends with his Will to be kept in the Citadel library until the recipients can receive them. He does not think upon the Quest except to hope for its success. 

His final letter is to Constance. He writes it as he watches the trolls pushing catapults up to the eastern river bank. His fingers and knuckles are stained with ink, and he is nearly out of parchment and sealing wax. He has to fan the ink furiously to dry it in the damp and the middle of the night. 

_Dear Constance,_

_I do not know how this letter will find you. I write to you in Osgiliath and Gondor’s hour of need. I do not know if you feel any love towards this place, which treated you so poorly, or towards me, who never tried to help or reach you. I write to you earnestly and because the situation is desperate._

_Would you consider returning to Minas Tirith? Tomorrow (and as this letter is sent), I will meet the forces of Nemesis upon the eastern shore of Osgiliath. Whether I am victorious or if I fall, I have left in my Will which will be read at court in the Citadel the means for you to begin your life here once again. I have a testimony to your character and my knowledge of your unwilling departure. I confess: I broke into your room through your window, and I saw what was left there._

_If you return, you will be restored. It is my Will. Thank you for your friendship all those years past. I hope that this letter reaches you. I hope, most of all, that you are healthy and hale._

_Your friend,  
Ferdinand_

Ferdinand breathes in. He folds up the letter and slides it into the envelope. He reaches for his wax and drips it onto the fold of the envelope. Once enough wax pools there, he sets the wax stick aside and away from heat and applies his seal as a General of Gondor. It is not an appropriate use of the seal. This message will go south, treated like a matter of the utmost importance. Ferdinand cannot allow himself to care about possible ramifications. 

He pushes the sealed envelope away. Looks up. Hubert is reading over his own letter that he is working on to send back to Edoras. His own Will. 

Outside, it is quiet. They will send their letters in the morning. Before dawn light. 

At dawn, they will ride. 

“Hubert,” Ferdinand whispers. 

Hubert glances up. Straightens. He sets down the paper and moves closer to Ferdinand until he stands over him. His eyes are focused and green through his black hair. 

It is like the first time they met. Ferdinand kneeling by the river. Hubert moving carefully through the mint. 

After tomorrow, nothing will live nor grow in the river outside. It will swallow them whole. 

They have nothing to hide from each other. 

Ferdinand gives into his heart. 

He lifts his arms. Hubert is already reaching back and leaning down as Ferdinand asks:

“Please, hold me?” 

“You do not need to ask,” Hubert says, raspy and soft as he gathers Ferdinand in his arms and presses a kiss to his forehead when a noise escapes Ferdinand’s lips and causes him to bury his face against Hubert’s chest. “I am here for you.” 

Perhaps Ferdinand weeps. Perhaps he and Hubert kiss and they weep together. Perhaps they make homes within each other’s bodies and swallow each other’s gasps and chase each other’s cries. These things are theirs, and they choose them in each other.

Such things are theirs to keep and keep them they do. 

They are free. 

The war is here.

This is not new. 

Gondor has been fighting the war since it was founded. Ferdinand has fought in it for a whole decade of his life. Hubert, since he stumbled out of the mountains, has been embroiled in Rohan’s side of the war. It has been going on for thousands of years longer. 

The forces of Nemesis are amassed across the river. There is heavy, dark cloud cover, and the clouds do not contain rain. They blot out the sun at high noon so that the trolls do not turn to stone. The poor creatures in their chains are prodded and whipped until they move forward and wade into the water, dragging carriers full of Enemy troops and catapults behind them. 

A part of Ferdinand feels as if everything has come full circle. 

Ferdinand came into himself in Osgiliath. He became a soldier and then a man. He was recognised for his skills, and he came to understand the ebb and flow of life in the water and its tides. He never feared Mordor nor the Enemy. He loves Osgiliath, Minas Tirith, Emyn Muil, Gondor, Rohan, Imladris. He loves Hubert, and Mithril, and all the people he has lost, and life and laughter and magic and people. 

He loves all the creatures on this earth.

If this is where he is to die:

Ferdinand is content. 

It is a good death. 

Any other thoughts are pointless. 

Ferdinand faces forward. Left hand in Mithril’s mane. He tightens his hold upon Assal. Raises the spearhead towards the sky. 

When Jeralt taught Constance and Ferdinand magic, he said: 

“The trick is you must believe in what you want with all of your heart.” 

Assal Shines. 

“Men of Gondor!” Ferdinand roars. “Men of the West!” 

Beneath his body, he feels Mithril’s muscle’s ripple. She is awake. She is aware. 

She turns and Ferdinand sees: 

“Today, our bodies become the Shield!” 

The muster of Gondor, old and young. Horses and donkeys and ponies. They wear armour and dresses and carry farm tools and homemade swords. They do not baulk in the face of magic. Of danger. Of the greatest terror they will ever know. 

Ferdinand loves them. He loves them all so much. 

“We ride! We face our Enemy head on, and they will know! The strength of our Will! Our Pride! Our Love for this Earth!” 

Roaring. They are roaring. Mithril is with them, calling forth the portents of the ages from the depths of Mandos and the entrance to Valinor. The Veil is lifted. The Gates are open. 

At the front, Ferdinand sees Hubert upon Hestia, gloveless and wreathed in flames. 

“Ride!” Ferdinand roars as he hoists Assal higher. “Ride in Glory! Ride in Flames! We do not fear Death! 

“This is Gondor’s Dance!” 

**xiv.** The Houses of Healing

In the years that follow, tales upon tales are told of Gondor’s Dance. 

The doomed charge that became a rallying cry. The Lord Ferdinand of Gondor, shining brighter than any earthly jewel. Songs will call him a Living Simaril. He raised the Spear Assal and, for a moment, the Star of Eärendil returned to Middle Earth. 

And as the forces of Gondor met the Enemy in the river-water, flames bloomed around them that did not burn the Free People but sent their Enemies shrieking in pain from the light of the Star and fire that no water could put out. The tales say there was a man upon a black horse then known only as Hubert of Rohan who rode alongside the Lord Ferdinand, and it is from him the fire originated. 

It was only upon the unleashing of the Black Breath, brought from the Black Gate and descending as a choking, smothering cloud that felled forces of Gondor and Nemesis alike that the battle came to an end. The Breath swept and lay across the river and Osgiliath, and, when it lifted, bodies clogged the river. Water filled their mouths. There was no telling how many people were lost that day. 

Gondor’s Last Dance decimated Gondor’s strength, but it also gutted the forces of Nemesis. By the time Lysithea was brought as a captive to Mordor and Annette, having taken up the Ring, snuck in, Nemesis was engaged on all fronts. There was no more Evil to call. Nemesis was limited and weakened by the use of the Black Breath in such a capacity. Rohan came to the aid of Gondor, alerted by a woman of the South who called herself Constance and guided by a Free Orc named Gothmog, who knew secret ways through the Dead Marshes. Together, they defended Minas Tirith on Pelennor Field until it was wet with blood and aid came in the form of the Enlightened Byleth, the Lady Edelgard, the Lord Claude, and Prince Dimitri and a fleet of the dead from the mountains. 

Through all of this, Ferdinand and Hubert slept in the Houses of Healing. They had been retrieved by their horses, who, although gravely injured, carried their riders from the Black Breath back to the gates of Minas Tirith. Hubert awoke just prior to the Battle of Pelennor Fields, much to the surprise of all of the healers. He spoke of no reason that he could wake, but he demanded to be brought to Ferdinand’s side. He could not wake Ferdinand anymore than the healers or even Ferdinand’s lord father the Steward could, but he tended him in his unnatural sleep and defended him when the Steward Ludwig fully descended into madness. 

It was only after Lysithea took the Ring into Mount Doom where it was destroyed with the help of Annette and the pitiable creature, Smeagol, that Ferdinand woke. It is said that Hubert was there, and he held Ferdinand, who was weak and confused by his strange dreams and the dark sky rattling with lightning and thunder and Mount Doom’s explosive eruption outside. 

In the tales of this moment, one conversation was overheard through the chaos of the day. It is said that Hubert helped Ferdinand to the window and out into the courtyard. Looking East, as the world seemed to explode and shatter and remake itself once again, it is said that Ferdinand could be heard exclaiming:

“Hubert, I quite adore you, but please move me closer—I will not catch fire nor will I ache more than I already do!

“I would see our friends’ victory with my own eyes!” 

And, where all could see, Hubert laughed, loud and joyously, and did as he was bidden. 

**xv.** The Road Goes Ever On and On

The river Anduin runs clear. 

Ferdinand sits on the river bank. He watches the water, and the sparse bits of green grass and moss that has begun to grow along both the eastern and western sides. A couple horse widths to his right, Mithril noses at the grass. Ferdinand had taken her out from the Citadel for some exercise and fresh air, just before first light. 

Today is the third time Ferdinand and Mithril have gone walking since the Ring was destroyed three months before. They had both had long recoveries. Mithril’s front left knee had been fractured and she had taken multiple arrow wounds that festered. Ferdinand took three arrows himself he had not noticed, and he was comatose from the Black Breath for two full months. Mithril will never be able to bear Ferdinand nor any substantial weight again, but Ferdinand has no intention of giving her up. She will be his walking and river-watching companion until it is her time.

Before they left, he left a note for Hubert, who was sleeping deeply for the first time in at least a week. Edelgard has, since the end of the War, made a great deal of noise about Hubert’s parentage. Ferdinand has supported her because the White Tree has begun to show small buds, which apparently began to sprout soon after Hubert first arrived in Minas Tirith. Seteth and Flayn are scheduled to arrive from Imladris with pertinent information for both Hubert and Gondor itself on the morrow. The past week has been a flurry of Hubert focusing on minding Ferdinand to not deal with his own impending life upheaval. 

The minding is not unfounded. Ferdinand is now Steward of Gondor and is, very obviously, incredibly ill-suited for the plodding imbecility of court life. Ferdinand has so far gotten into two shouting matches with the master of the treasury and nearly come to blows with General Bergliez, the latter of which caused Belegon and Byleth to break their quiet observance of court proceeding to assist Hubert in holding Ferdinand back as Bergliez’s supporters did the same for him. 

“This is Gondor!” Bergliez roared, completely incensed. “I will not be held to the standards of barbarians!”

“Get out!” Ferdinand howled, lunging hard enough in Hubert, Belegon, and Byleth’s hold that he nearly escaped to pound Bergliez into the floor. “Until you seal your prejudiced and prideful tongue, I relieve you of your duties!” 

That drastically changed the tone of the court. Since that incident, most keep their heads down, seemingly cowed but really just biding their time. A couple of families have even expressed fear that Ferdinand will punish them for speaking out of turn, seemingly interpreting Ferdinand as a youthful Steward easily swayed by emotions. Ferdinand holds his tongue, but inside and to Hubert and Belegon he seethes. 

He understands now how corrupt the Citadel became under his father. In the wake of the war, families that rose to power are uncertain, especially because Constance has returned to court as the head of the restored Nuvelle family. Her tongue is as sharp as her magic and fists, and Ferdinand is glad to have her, especially because she gets on so well with the other Walkers who have remained in Minas Tirith. She speaks easily and often over those who would give Ferdinand additional grief, and since Randolph arrived at court in replacement of his father, their verbal sparring helps to break down the old order further. 

Still, court life chafes. Ferdinand finds himself running out the training yard, where Hubert will eventually show up in a flurry of worry because Ferdinand is not entirely physically recovered from his long convalescence. He tries to focus, with varying success, upon projects that do interest him. He has begun reforms to the forces of Gondor and to the Guards of Minas Tirith and the Citadel. Byleth and Belegon are helpful in this, and Ferdinand is very glad to have their input. It helps take their minds off of Jeralt’s passing during the Quest against Durin’s Bane in Moria. 

Due to Seteth and Flayn’s impending visit, Ferdinand is attempting to make the Citadel minimally welcoming for Elves. The Citadel is not welcoming, and Minas Tirith has not been able to rebuild more than absolute necessities since the War’s end. Claude is little help in this and not just because he is an Elf of Mirkwood. He and Dimitri have become such close friends that their previous rivalry is all but forgotten. They have a great liking of traipsing about Minas Tirith together upon Dimitri’s war-boar, which has grown mysteriously larger. Sometimes, they convince Ferdinand to go with them. 

It is exhausting. Ferdinand feels more busy than he ever has been in my life. He is also, despite his father’s ignoble tragedy and the keenly felt loss of Jeralt, the happiest he has been in his life. A part of Ferdinand that he knows very well feels guilty. Another part, which everyone around him reminds him of with their presence and friendship, is as close to at peace as Ferdinand has ever been. 

Ferdinand had not believed that he would survive the war, but he believed in Gondor and Hubert and his friends. This is what saved him. This is what must continue to guide him. No matter what else lies on the horizon: 

He is not alone. 

A boot crunches on twigs and pebbles. Very deliberately. Ferdinand’s lips twitch. 

“You need not do that, Hubert,” he says, looking up from the river and behind his right shoulder to see Hubert approaching, Hestia following several paces behind with her strangely, wonderfully silent hooves. “I have been expecting you.”

The worry lines on Hubert’s lips and mouth smooth out. He snorts faintly, lips twisting into a fond, somewhat teasing grin. 

“You ran off so I could run off, too?” he rasps as he kneels down at Ferdinand’s back. 

“Yes,” Ferdinand says because that was partially his intention; he smiles as Hubert chuckles and reaches for Ferdinand’s unbound and therefore wild hair; “I am thinking of escaping back to Emyn Muil and going swimming with Gothmog.” 

“Don’t you dare,” Hubert says, very low and jokingly threatening.

He threads his fingers through Ferdinand’s hair. Pulls it back and over Ferdinand’s shoulders to rest over his back. He shuffles at the small pack at his side and pulls out –

“At this point,” Ferdinand says as Hubert takes a handful of the ends of his hair, “that hair brush will travel as much as I do.”

“It is the most useful item you own,” Hubert says as he begins to attack the near constant mess that is Ferdinand’s hair. 

This makes Ferdinand laugh. He looks back towards the river as the amusement calms, Hubert’s strokes with the brush firm and soothing. They sit for a long time on the river bank like this. Hubert finishes brushing and begins one of the complicated braids he so loves to put Ferdinand’s hair in. They have caught on already in Citadel and Minas Tirith fashion. Ferdinand has even spotted Linhardt, who declines to ever show his face in court in favour of lounging in the library, wearing a neat crown braid. Constance, and surprising Bernadetta who has come out of her long isolation, will not let her curiosity of the identity of Linhardt’s lover go, even though Linhardt dodges her inquiries with a dedication he applies to nothing else. 

Between Ferdinand and Constance, they are changed. Constance does have some resentment, rightfully so, towards Ferdinand for holding his tongue and keeping her unwilling departure from Gondor secret. Ferdinand’s letter and his restoration of her position in court is a step towards righting those wrongs, and Constance’s actions in the War place her to become influential and revive her lineage. Her pride, though, is also tempered by kindness, and they are not so changed that they do not remember and love their childhood days together. She knows, too, that even if Ferdinand had spoken up, no one would have listened. 

With time, the wounds to their friendship will heal. It is as Jeralt would have wanted. They are his only students. They have both grown into strong adults with deep moral principles. She is Ferdinand’s most vocal supporter against the corrupt court, even when she and Ferdinand stand at personal differences. Ferdinand is heartened and emboldened. Constance gives her heart and mind freely.

It is more than Ferdinand could ever hope for. 

“Ferdinand,” Hubert murmurs. 

Ferdinand blinks. Looks away from the water. When he glances up, Hubert gazes down at him with a reserved expression. Cautious of both Ferdinand and the words he is about to voice. 

“Do you hear the Call of the Sea?” 

Ferdinand opens his mouth. Closes it. He looks back down. Into the river. The clear water. 

Hubert holds him close. Ferdinand feels the outline of his light mail beneath his tunic. The heat of his body. Like this, Ferdinand is his most content. 

“I do not think I have Sea-Longing,” he says both to Hubert and the water, “but perhaps I have river or water-longing, if such a thing may exist. My mother was said to have been cursed by the Black Breath on one of her trips to Dol Amroth, but I now think that she had Sea-Longing. Dol Amroth’s southern reach is the Bay of Belfalas into which the River Anduin meets the Great Sea. She had Elven blood as do I, and I know that, while she loved me and I like to believe she had fondness for my father, she did not love Minas Tirith. Living here likely shortened her life. 

“In my dreams, there is dense fog. As I have grown older, sometimes I can hear water. I do not know what the sea sounds like, but the water in my dreams is definitely a river. The dreams began after the Siege of Osgiliath where Anduin protected and made glory of me. It did the same again in Emyn Muil where it fed the marshes and then once more in Osgiliath, where it saved us and our horses both. And in Imladris –” 

Ferdinand raises his head. Hubert gazes down at him. They hold each other very close. They will never let each other go. 

Ferdinand loves him so much. 

“You came to me on the river bank and thought me an Elf, like something out of a tale.” 

Hubert huffs. His lips remain lifted as he leans down to meet Ferdinand’s lips. The kiss is sweet and slow and utterly unhurried. Beneath his palm, Ferdinand feels how Hubert’s heart beats slow and steady and so very real. 

“I am never going to live that down, am I,” Hubert murmurs as they pull apart enough to breathe. 

“No,” Ferdinand says, a laugh bubbling up in his chest. “I will never let you forget it.” 

Nor will Edelgard, especially now that she is Queen of Rohan. Ferdinand knows she plans to tell the story to anyone who will listen once Ferdinand is more settled into what his Stewardship will be like and Hubert’s situation is stablised whatever that may be. Her opinion is that Hubert needs to be kept on his toes and not just with matters of state. She is quite funny, Ferdinand has begun to realise. She enjoys a bit of fancy and fun, and it makes everyone smile. 

Ferdinand’s laughter causes Hubert to huff. He shifts so that Ferdinand has to roll onto the riverbank. Their legs tangle together. Ferdinand encourages Hubert to blanket his body with his own so that Ferdinand may easily reach up and thread his fingers through Hubert’s hair. It is growing a little long. Like Ferdinand’s and the Rohirrim. 

Lúthien’s hair was black as night. Hubert followed Ferdinand into the darkness. 

“I love you,” Ferdinand breathes as Hubert’s head dips forward. 

“I love you, too,” Hubert says against Ferdinand’s lips. 

They kiss. Ardently. Passionately. 

On the river bank, watched over by their horses: 

The Star and the Fire Dance.

**Author's Note:**

> Connect with me on [Twitter @Metallic_Sweet](https://twitter.com/Metallic_Sweet)!
> 
> This fic is now available in a "director's cut" with additional material via my [Itch.io](https://metallic-sweet.itch.io/letters-to-rohan) as a free PDF. Please consider reading it this way as well.


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